Longing

Supposedly every second is the exact same length. That's the whole basis of kinematics, regardless of the actual size. They can be big or small, but they are always the same; mutual beats of a healthy heart. The metronome of the universe.

I disagree. Seconds stretch sometimes painfully long. They compress, and hit at small, penetrating intervals. Sometimes they hang in the air, dripping. They flex and mold, bend and expand.

I can feel it even now. Happy memories, zipping away in a sports car, splashing across the street. Longing, standing with me at the bus station. Mud on our boots.

I have more in common with Longing, I suppose. Maybe we could be friends.

How do you make friends with the space between?

Longing looks down at me. It's raining. He's holding a dark umbrella large enough for both of us to stand comfortably apart, facing the street. This is our ritual. He stands by me, and holds the umbrella for us. We never speak.

He's wearing a brown trench coat that goes down to his knees, and business slacks. He's wearing a hat, very Sherlock Holmes. I snicker to myself.

He doesn't have a face. He stands there, his entire being transparent. His clothes are the only things that define the perimeter of him. I look up at him, and I'm looking at the tag on the back of his hat. Some famous hat maker, I suppose. I wouldn't know. He looks like a magic trick. A circus act. "The invisible man."

This doesn't perturb me. We've spent a lot of time together, at this bus station. I know him in the rare and unique way only strangers can understand each other—by intuition, body language, feeling. I know his feeling.

I spend too much of my time with his feeling. Longing for the next thing. The next achievement, job, day, year, challenge, goal. Next next next. Will there ever be a place where Longing can't follow? Will I ever be able to have the peace to not think of what's "next"?

Longing looks back to the street. The rain is pattering down on the muddy road in front of us.

I sigh.

The bus is late.