The carnal obsession does not lead to happiness, but to a numbness of the soul. It is a fever that, instead of purifying, consumes. Every act, every encounter, should mark a landing, a quiet. Instead, it is nothing but the prelude to a new, immediate craving. There is no rest. There is no satisfaction. Only the irritating hum of a self-sustaining need, a prison whose walls are made of one’s own nerves.

A groove is dug ever deeper within oneself, a laceration that does not heal. Excitement becomes an empty refuge, a blunt mechanism to escape confrontation with one’s inner void. It is the antithesis of true pleasure, which by its nature is an episode, a peak, not a life sentence. Here, instead, one is condemned to infinitely repeat a gesture that has lost all flavor, all meaning. One becomes an automaton of desire, a slave to a distorted biological rhythm, where the body demands what the spirit can no longer provide.

It is the most abysmal solitude: that which is felt amidst bodies, at the moment of maximum physical contact. A desert advancing, parching every genuine feeling. Instinct, emptied of its vital power, transforms into a ruthless master. The compulsive search is not an expression of vitality, but the symptom of an escape, the refusal to face the nothingness one has created. It is a desperate attempt to feel alive which, with cruel irony, only accelerates the process of inner death.

The din is mistaken for passion, movement for life. But it is only a whirlwind leading to the same, identical starting point: dissatisfaction. A sterile cycle, a fight against an invisible enemy that is not outside, but within us. And every time one hopes it will be the last, that this time, finally, the spark will burst into a fire that warms the soul. Instead, it is nothing but a damp matchstick extinguishing in the darkness, leaving only a trail of acrid smoke and the certainty of having to light another. And then another still. Infinitely.

       〰️ 🤍 〰️

🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅