Longing is your heart missing something you’ve never had. You remember it all perfectly without any memories of it. “It’s all in your head.” they say, yet you know deep inside your gut that every inch of your body is aching to stretch itself to fit into your imagination perfectly. Your mind is somewhere in between then, now, that which will come, and that which will never be; you are anywhere but this moment. Your eyes refuse to see nothing except that which no one else can see: The fantasy you dream of day and night, the time that only you can visit, the subconscious thought you are unaware of that shapes you to become more like itself every day. That note in that song, that tear on her cheek, his silent laughter, that voice in the dark calling you there and back again. The heartache. The feeling that you will float up from your bed and into your mind and stay there forever. That picture, that song that gets stuck in your head, the video you play over and over again, trying to absorb, to become a part of it as much as you can, because you think, “Maybe this time, my wish will come true.” Trying to achieve an imaginary goal in the thought that it will bring you closer to home. And the nights you stay up, crying, holding onto your string; clutching it and hoping that someday you’ll get to follow it up over the houses and towns and into the stars where you can finally sleep. Up to the moon where you can finally turn around and see how big your world is.