I dreamed I was a serial killer. A fugitive on the run. And I was good at it. I kept evading the authorities. I had my lover by my side and we were determined to escape to our own personal paradise.
It wasn’t clear who I’d murdered or why. Just that I had and that I liked it. I was proud of it. And I wanted to keep doing it. No. I needed to keep doing it.
It doesn’t always make sense… the things we want. They’re not always good. But still we want them. We are not capable of making ourselves not want them. We can deny ourselves the pleasure we crave, but for the most part, we are powerless. Slaves to our mysterious desires.
We can summon our will and choose not to act upon those desires, but then we are miserable.
We can give in to them and become puppets twirling on the dark strings tangling within us. It feels good at first. I know this.
But soon we are back where we started. Full of inexlicable cravings that simultaneously make us euphoric and morose.
Life is a lever. Despair is the fulcrum. The scales measure only what is not there.