I prefer the older definitions. They seem less negative, more nuanced.
This then is an ode to the languishing. It is a place where one has arrived to find broken dreams, unfinished projects, hoped for successes all for naught.
Mr. Hughes spoke of holding fast to dreams, and mine remain close. Yet, I still feel like a broken winged bird that cannot fly, confused, shot from the sky by the unrealized.
Perhaps the time for holding fast is done.
I wonder if languishing is simply another word for letting go.
I do not like this place.
I am afraid.
I do not want to be labeled lazy.
And yet action for action sake is “sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
The tendency is to move! move, damnit!
Who or what determines a life’s success?
Do I still have a good heart, as she told me long ago? Perhaps I will ask her that today.
As my tongue lies thick in my mouth, while I try to learn this new language of languish.