Yearning.

Surely this is not it.

Last year, I lived inside a kind of yearning, a constant ache for something soft, for beauty—a chapel in the middle of a field, with too many flowers and Jesus and a softly playing guitar somewhere in the background. I remember viscerally walking the streets of Sydney, waiting on the edge of my seat for a call from the Drs, peering into lit homes as though beauty itself might save me for a moment. I remember looking at festoon lights on someones deck, hoping for a kind minute, that they were pointing to hope itself. The world around me during this time, felt abrasive, and so my soul went looking for proof, little scraps that beauty still existed.

I think sometimes yearning is the soul refusing to fully acclimatise to hopelessness. A refusal to believe the harshness is all there is.

Here’s a lyrical piece I wrote from that time. I hope it speaks something soft in your direction.