Sometimes the cure for desire is a good book. A story well written with the necessary plot points will ease nerves and isolate us from ourselves enough to realize that there’s more to us than what we desire.
I should have read the book–any book–long ago when it was just a lonely itch. I could have bathed in the honey of someone else’s thoughts. In that thick haze, I’d have been absolved of everything. I would have choked my sins in their nascent stages and the bliss of having to live through someone else’s mind would have anesthetized whatever wounds I would have had to bear.
“I should have known better.” It’s becoming a theme, apparently.
But what is wrong with desire? Why can’t I ride all the dragons before the fire is taken from me?
(Been thinking about strangers and desperation or more adequately, about how desperate I’ve been to forge a lasting connection with someone I’ve never met who is also strangely familiar. There’s also the question of people I know who’ve become strangers I’ve yet to meet again. In between all of that is longing. It’s always longing, isn’t it?)