I've been thinking about obsession. Something I am familiar with, unfortunately for the most part. Not the most constructive kind of obsession, usually- the kind that spurs creativity and drive and determination. Mostly the kind I am thinking of, and usually experience operates around the idea of having something. Collecting something. Or just something. Over and over. Patterns actually. Drowning out everything else in my head, and just repeating over and over and over. Keeping me from sleep. Keeping me from a lot of things, actually.

Usually the obsession is finite- not eternal. It goes away after a while. I attribute this to boredom, and an obsession with novelty (did you see what I did there?). But it keeps on. And keeps up. Luckily the obsessions haven't been unnecessarily destructive. Just time-consuming. And money-consuming. Some of them bring me joy, like plants. Some bring me sorrow, like some memories. But over and over. We go round and about.

To change my metaphor, it is like those old-school Bozo the clown toys. Inflate and punch. Then they bounce back to be punched again. I had one when I was about 3. I loved it, even though it scared me. Then it got punctured, and became a smelly latex bag with sand in the bottom. One of life's first little disappointments. To be continued, certainly. But obsession. Like that. Over and over and around and about. A labyrinth in my head. That I keep treading. And hoping for a different outcome most of the time. Hopeless, likely. But I continue on, because I really don't know how to stop. And am afraid of what would replace the obsessions I know if they weren't there. It might be a very bad thing.