Desperately Obsessed

We all have that thing we desire. You know what it is. It's probably the same as mine. However, that's unlikely.

It's your obsession. Your delight when you experience it, your loathing that you shouldn't have, your one vice, your... sin.

You're desperate for it. I know I am.

Yes it's that thing which blinds you to everything else. Perhaps it's a substance. A person. An object. A place. A feeling.

And don't tell me coffee, you pendantic bastard.

You're obsessed with it. You can't live without it. Well, you can you just tell yourself that you can't.

That desperatation for the sweet release of caffiene into your blood to wake you up. Or heroine to take the edge off. Or nicotine to stop that incessant trembling in your hands.

The obsession with the embrace of that special someone - or maybe anyone who's convenient? You, being there with them. Inside them. Maybe they're in you?

The precious bauble of your great-great-somebody's... what's it? You know the thing I'm talking about. The book, or photo album, or record they had from when they were not so ancient in your cobweb addled memory.

It's that beauty of Fiji, the family connection to your ancestor's farm, the destructive sight of a volcano. The beach where you can be blissfully ignorant of being ogled while you stalk that special someone you love (or hate?) on Facebook.

That rivetting feeling you get when someone touches your heart in just the right way. Or that rush you get of being abused which drives you to the edge of sanity, teetering on the abyss.

Oh yes, you are desperate for it. You might even shame a dear friend to please yourself.

Oh yes, you are obsessed with it. You might even debase yourself to please someone else.

But I'm curious... what is yours, specifically?

You see... I'm desperately obsessed with knowing.