The Pull

What is it that we all long for? It is a longing that we do not always consciously perceive. It bubbles deep below the surface of our bones and our skin and clots in the cytoplasm of our soul. It teases our fingers to grasp it, yet slips through them as we close our fist. It is the playwright of our dreams, which are merely rehearsals of those moments that will never have momentum. What is that pull towards the sky? What are those invisble strings that make our puppet-like perceptions dance? Unsatisfaction, it seems, is a black,  putrid rot that smothers and suffocates all that is satisfying. I envy the satisfied ones, but although they appear satisfied to me, I question whether their soles are writhing deep inside as mine does. I don't think I can quite articulate something which is not visible, something which is not palpable, yet is thick and fluid in the air that I breathe...