The thing I enjoy about obsessions is that they have no rhyme to reason, are entirely arbitrary, specific to one singular individual and with sufficient thoroughly twisted layers to make them magnifically obtuse. Having people fully understand my quirks would make the less potent, have less personal appeal, be verging on the commonplace however random the pursuit might be.
Collecting butterflies is a pastime, amassing just blue butterflies is a preoccupation, accumulating blue butterflies with only one wing signifies an obsession.
Daily Abstract Thoughts 