I live in a world of fantasies, infatuations and love poems. Sometimes I wonder if the yearning I’ve felt for others was more of a yearning for yearning itself. I’ve pined insatiably and repeatedly: for strangers, new lovers, unrequited flames. Perhaps, then, I have not been so infatuated with the people themselves, but with the act of longing. Even when the longing was excruciating, it fulfilled a purpose for me: namely, the purpose of making meaning in this life.

Source: New York Times February 09, 2019 10:52 UTC