There’s a small part of my heart that’s always sad
Part of me that walks with a slow aching step
Forever longing
The beauty of that
To be forever longing
Too much joy makes the time pass too quickly
A bit of sadness slows things down so you can see it

the sadness of a lost childhood feels like yearning, impossible desire. It feels like a hollow, insatiable hunger.

My suffering left me sad and gloomy.

Our yearnings are homesicknesses for heaven; our sighings are for God, just as children that cry themselves asleep away from home, and sob in their slumber, know not that they sob for their parents. The soul's inarticulate moanings are the affections yearning for the Infinite, and having no one to tell them what it is that ails them.

Writing is a constant exercise in longing.

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

The soul lets out some sighs — not great ones — because it can do no more; they are felt within.

Sorrow floats.

I carry a deep sadness of the heart which must now and then break out in sound.

Love in the form of longing and deprivation lowers the self regard.

Yearning hurts,
and what release
may come of it
feels much like death.

The restlessness in the human heart will never be finally stilled by any person, project, or place. The longing is eternal. This is what constantly qualifies and enlarges our circles of belonging. There is a constant and vital tension between longing and belonging. Without the shelter of belonging, our longings would lack direction, focus, and context; they would be aimless and haunted, constantly tugging the heart in a myriad of opposing directions. Without belonging, our longing would be demented. As memory gathers and anchors time, so does belonging shelter longing. Belonging without longing would be empty and dead, a cold frame around emptiness. One often notices this in relationships where the longing has died; they have become arrangements, and there is no longer any shared or vital presence. When longing dies, creativity ceases. The arduous task of being a human is to balance longing and belonging so that they work with and against each other to ensure that all the potential and gifts that sleep in the clay of the heart may be awakened and realized in this one life.

"If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,