I’ve been thinking, recently, a great deal about the value of fantasy and, by extension, of longing. To long is to reach and yearn and want, to search for the thing, whatever it is, that will soothe the ache of not-having. As humans, we long for so much. It seems instinctive for us to want.
To be in a state of longing is to be painfully and poignantly alive. It is, in essence, the concentration of desire on its object; the willful, (or un-willful), surrender to want. Longing, though painful, can be a pleasure, as well – one that is quite acute. It quickens the blood and sharpens the senses. It makes the body hum. Poor reward for those caught in the depths of it, but a compelling surface to skate on, nonetheless.