A longing for रस

I'm missing the rasa, the flavor.
I'm in need of that ephemeral taste in my soul.
Like the instant grin on your face that appears after eating a cheeseburger and smoking a cigarette.
Flavor that comes, not only from the tingle on your taste buds, but from deep within your core.
Like the unexpected convulsion of whimpers and sniffles you can no longer repress

(And only afterward realize that you don't remember why you were even crying in the first place).
The feeling that proliferates after seeing something cathartic.
I long for this rasa, this flavor.
Call me Henri-Marie Beyle.
Call me Graziella Magherini.
But when you feel it, you know it.
That feeling that overcomes you and thrusts you into a state of shock.
Bharata knows what I'm talking about
Aristotle and Horace get the idea.
They understand that when this Stendhal-ic sensation latches onto my mind,
Nothing can compare.
Nothing.
Because when Hamlet cries out,
O, I die, Horatio.
The potent poison quite o'ercrows my spirit.
I will be there.
I will be hunched over in my seat, convulsing and grinning and tingling,
Soaking up every last piece of special and general revelation.
Because I know this feeling lasts only as long as the length of the curtain.
And when the lights go down, I'll remember the fugacity.
I will sit in my chair remember the taste of catharsis on my lips.
Because this feeling,
This sensation,
is euphoria.