longing

Gavin, I can__ talk to you here. People will call me crazy." My imaginary friend smirked. "But you__e already talking to me." "Well, I have to stop." His smirk grew cocky. "I doubt you can resist." And he was right. There was nothing I wanted more than to give my full attention to an imagined shadow and ignore those who ignored me in the real world. I wanted to talk out loud to Gavin__o play and laugh boisterously with him. In a dream I could justify such behavior, but to succumb to hallucinations while wide awake would only prove me insane.

For the first time, she did want more. She did not know what she wanted, knew that it was dangerous and that she should rest content with what she had, but she knew an emptiness deep inside her, which began to ache.

Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!

You can ache for where you come from, and it's homesickness. A relationship, and it's heartbreak. But is there a word for missing your friends like that?

Um, thanks,_ Jackson told her. __nd your name is_?_____ Margaret, Margaret Van Der Graaf,_ she answered with another eerie smile. Her teeth were so white that they looked bleached.__an Der Graaf?_ Jackson repeated, trying to stifle his laughter. He didn__ want to be rude to the only person in sight, to this kind-hearted stranger who was offering to help him, but_ Van Der Graaf?__hat are you laughing at?_ Margaret asked with curiosity, flashing him a calculating gaze. __ like my name. If you__e going to be a jerk, then I won__ help you. You can stay out here on the street through the night for all I care.___Harsh,_ said Jackson, giving her a quizzical glance back. There was something __ff_ about her, something that Jackson couldn__ quite place, something that bordered on horrible loneliness and longing. __ho else lives here, Margaret Van Der Graaf?_ He couldn__ resist saying her name aloud. Despite its hilarity, it had a nice ring to it. __ho else lives here?_ he urged.__e, myself and I,_ said Margaret simply, snickering when she saw his horrified and annoyed expression

It has to do with me because it has to do with you," Young says, his voice dropping. "Jaewon-ah, we've been friends longer than we've been--.""Enemies?" I suggest weakly."Than we've been lost.

When I opened the box, I had to remove myself from whose handwriting it was that I was reading and whose story I was hearing. I had to, or I never would have made it past the first letter. If I stopped to think about my Grandpa writing to my Grandma, knowing how much he loved her and how many years he spent without her after her death, I knew I wouldn__ be able to make it through just one letter without an onslaught of tears. And it was Grandpa, a voice I knew so well. One that I miss terribly.

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!And yet they seem alive and quiveringAgainst my tremulous hands which loose the stringAnd let them drop down on my knee to-night.This said, -- he wished to have me in his sightOnce, as a friend: this fixed a day in springTo come and touch my hand ... a simple thing,Yet I wept for it! -- this, ... the paper's light ...Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailedAs if God's future thundered on my past.This said, I am thine -- and so its ink has paledWith lying at my heart that beat too fast.And this ... O Love, thy words have ill availedIf, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

Now Doon seemed to care for his new friends more than he did for her. Every time she thought about him she felt a thud of pain, like a bruised place inside her.

If the portraits of our absent friends are pleasant to us, which renew our memory of them and relieve our regret for their absence by a false and empty consolation, how much more pleasant are letters which bring us the written characters of the absent friend.

If you don't receive love from the ones who are meant to love you, you will never stop looking for it.

Like any / unloved thing, I don__ know if I__ real /when I__ not being touched.

I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.

My heart only ever had one thought, one want. One need. Despite all, in spite of all...All my heart has ever wanted is you.

I am a lover of words and tragically beautiful things, poor timing and longing, and all things with soul, and I wonder if that means I am entirely broken, or if those are the things that have been keeping me whole.

I love you, Jeremy.__e still felt it, that wince of doubt. The urge to push her away. She said it so simply. As though there was nothing easier, more natural in the world. The words themselves hung in the air, so tiny, so bare.Jeremy felt as though she__ thrust a frail, delicate, birdlike thing into his big, clumsy hands, charging him to keep it safe. And God forgive him, his first impulse was to shove it away. He would destroy it, surely. In his desperation, he would grasp it so tightly it would break into a thousand pieces__nd his own heart would break along with it.

Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we're still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls. It's all the same impulse. What do we hope from it? Applause, envy, respect? Or simply attention, of any kind we can get?At the very least we want a witness. We can't stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio running down.

Living a life somewhere else in your mind is nothing more than being a prisoner where you are.