On Desire

There is something maddeningly seductive in depriving yourself of a desire you know you possess every power to fulfill. To be depraved is thrilling. Craving is more potent, more satisfying than satisfaction. Desire is infinite, immortal, it stretches on and on. To fulfill it, is to End—to submit to death in miniature. Each cessation chips away at you until nothing remains.

To prolong desire is to stretch the soul until it screams out for relief. For release. It is at the height of this agony that the soul ascends. No longer able to tolerate its fleshy, needy host it transcends, fleeing into the ether. But, as it is tethered to you by some unseen thread it must, necessarily, pull you along with it. Lifting you into the heavens, unto the very pinnacle of bliss.

Does bliss, then, lie in the fulfillment of desire or in the pursuit of it? Is there any real joy in unveiling a mystery? Or does that only lead to disappointment, to misery? We’re all terrified of Ends, of Ending. They unnerve us. Remind us of the banality and predictability of existence. Yet, by that very same logic they must also entice and enthrall us.

To crave is to dream. To reach for those lofty, unattainable heights desperately—adding romance to an otherwise dreary tale.

I prefer to dream. To seek. To fantasize and visualize impossibilities, rather than to realize.

And you? Which do you prefer?

To face the certainty of reality…there is no pleasure in that.

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