I spent a lot of my 20s without a car. Living in Humboldt Park in Chicago. Walking to the CTA Blue line to Union Station, taking the BNSF line out to the suburbs — hour and forty minutes one way — two, three times a week.
Some would say “ridiculous”, but I loved it. The freedom. Being on my own.
But what I really loved was the train ride itself. Looking out the window. Ambient music in my ears. Just feeling.
That eternal yearning. That longing for something just beyond the edge of what’s here. It made me feel like I was living beyond this world. Like it was feeding my soul.
But here’s the thing: I found myself leaning into yearning. I also leaned into nostalgia. And it hurt more than it fed.
It always left this tinge of sadness. Like watching a sunset. Beautiful. But you know it’s going to set. And then it’s just a memory. Time ends.
I was thirsty for eternal things. But the shadow side of that thirst? It was a thirst for what I couldn’t have. Nostalgia. Eternity. The unexplainable.
And instead of filling me, it created emptiness.
I wasn’t being known in reality. I was just living in feeling. In what I couldn’t name or touch.
And that’s the thing about feeding on yearning — it promises depth but leaves you hollow.
There’s a difference between being thirsty for God and being thirsty for the feeling of longing.
One leads you to the source. The other keeps you circling the ache.
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