Toska; No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.
Outside traffic rumbled and rain drops echoed through out the city streets. Inside jazz music caresses the souls of the lost cafe wanderers. I chase away the creeping hours of darkness coffee firmly in hand.
I drag my soul back “home”, through the quiet cobblestone path, head down until I reach the safety of the dark house. Rain drizzled down the windows as dark clouds engulf the sky. I make a pot of tea and bake some cookies, sit huddled in my blankets and weep, lanterns hang above my head chasing away the shadows of pity. The soothing whispers of time hush me.
The ticking gets louder.