I have them and I’m scared of them.
If you must know the most recent one is Benedict Cumbrebatch. Damn those sexy lips, deep voice, beautifully articulated cheekbones. Holy hell is that man sexy, and when he smiles–moving healthily on…
These obsessions have come and gone for a long while. Their stay is brief but penetrating and intense, filled with emotional and time investment. And when I unwillingly tire of them, when they leave, in their wake is an emptiness, a void that wants to be filled but is its own obstacle to the goal.
Obsessions give unhealthy expectations. Not only for the next resident obsession but for real life, real people. There is no such thing as a “bad boy with a heart of gold,” learned that the hard way. Life is not a book or a TV show.
Yet the fantasy continues.
In my fantasy world, everything is a storyline I’ve read or seen before, a character that’s been precreated, a world of stereotypes. And as I add characters and plot lines to this world of mine, I wonder if I can create something original, if there is such thing as an original. This turns into an obsession itself. I read, I watch, searching for an original character, something different to prove that we’re all not just repeating and rehashing each others work, that we can think independently.
But of course that’s not true.
There’s no way to think truly independently, to have a thought not molded or influenced by a single other thought existing in the world. Then why think at all if it appears the world is doing it for you?
It’s like the problem with voting. If you consider the masses then a singular vote doesn’t really count. But then if everybody started thinking like that, then nobody would vote. Similarly, if we all succumbed and accepted the absence of independent thought and stopped thinking, no one would think and we’d have no ideas instead of no original ideas.
In a circle this thought process goes and in the end I end up obsessively thinking myself into numbness, into recycling old thoughts so much I already am no longer thinking. Is that what obsession is? Is this what drives sociopaths and stalker fangirls and otaku’s? Thinking about something so intensely that one forgets all else and loses the ability to create.
I fear for obsession, for my obsessions. Ambition, perhaps, dressed up in determination. I fear for the society’s obsessions. Sins dolled up as goods, as rewards. I fear for what we will forget in the process of chasing our dreams, mimicking our idols and fulfilling social obligations.
I think–I worry….I think–I’m afraid…I think–too much…I think–nothing, nothing but thought. I think, I think, I think, I think….