I am by nature obsessive. Tend to collect particular fascinations that very easily become the watchwords to existence. Such passions are extraordinarily variable, can be intellectual and physical, both longstanding and short term. Once the infatuation takes hold it is wholly absorbing, requiring endless cultivation, and nurturing. Upon occasion the preoccupation can simply evaporate, never to resurface, yet improbably, contrarily, might reappear with all the old desire and frenzy. Passion is endlessly illogical, often belittling in its intensity, overpowering with unfortunate ferociousness.
The artful individual laces their fixations casually within activities, ensuring a suitable daily panacea to address their yearning addiction. Those less cunning expose themselves to the unfortunate and distressing effects of detachment, an insidious process to endure or witness.
The feeding of small infatuations, needs, fetishes, is a most successful way to endure the endless trauma life is inclined to present, and lay upon the mortal inconsiderately.