Longing. Strange little word, packed with layers and layers of meaning....
"Longing: to have a strong desire: verbal noun from long: verb, intransitive, followed by "for" or an infinitive. From the Old English 'langian' to belong, from 'gelan' at hand, belonging to. Related to long:1. having relatively great extent in space on a horizontal plane 2. having relatively great duration in time."
Oh yeah. I can see where that definition is coming from.
All those years - formative years, don't they call them? - defined by longing, spiked with anger. Longing for stability, for mom and dad and apple pie and a puppy - normal, ordinary, everyday things - but watching all the hopes dying inch by inch, withering and crumbling, sighing away into nothing. Anger at being left behind, cast out, drifting on the tides of circumstance, powerless to influence my fate...all the petty inadequacies of childhood, squared and cubed by random fate. A great swathe of wasted, arid years, trying to stay small and unnoticed, obliging and helpful. Longing to be accepted, to be valued, to be cherished, to fit in. Interminable ages of longing, and gradually turning inwards and convincing myself that it didn't really matter...
And now? Now I still feel it, the longing, the wanting, still as intense, but no longer hurting, now wrapped in the sweet comfort of belonging at last. I lie here, in the half-dark, propped on one elbow, staring at the man who lies beside me. I study the familiar planes of the face, hard edges softened by sleep, smoothed by dappled moonlight spilling through the open blinds...so easy to love, despite himself. He must feel my gaze, even in sleep: the sleepy dark eyes open, and a soft, smiling voice says, "Hey.."
Oh yeah. I belong.