To long for something that doesn't exist is to pursue an insatiable desire, to yearn for an image or a glimpse--a mere fragment of the mind. It is to dive head first into a suffering for which no foreseeable end exists. It is to dissociate from the tangibility and satisfaction of reality. This desperate need for a daydream drives her into the depths of isolation where the thoughts are the clearest and the imagination does its best impression of reality. She leaves herself to dwell in solitude, attempting to muster up a realistic simulation of what she could not conjure in real life.
The issue is fear. She's afraid, for whatever reason, to produce a tangible version of her fantasies. Instead she chooses to to hide away. Cowering in the corner, she defaults to existing in an environment that can't hurt or disappoint or anger her. And even when she's perfected this environment, even when she's surrounded herself with art that tells every story she wishes were real or literature so lifelike that it makes her heart ache, she still feels this weight. The kind of weight that results from gravity pulling as hard as it can, pawing around for something that just isn't there.
Part of her, the part that's responsible for the tingling in the stomach and the fluttering of the heart, suspects that these ideas, fantasies, and thoughts would be more fulfilling of they were real. Part of her has come to terms with the fact that there's something unsatisfying about living vicariously through her imagination, something exhausting about imagining the feeling of arms wrapping around her as opposed to simply being held.
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