I never came to terms with it. It was cheap, it was easy, it came into my life. I tried to hide it behind other things, but no matter where I hid it, I knew it was there, waiting to be used. Nay, demanding; after all, *I* was the one who brought it into my house, *I* was the one who said, "hey, can't hurt to try, right?"
I was ashamed. I didn't tell anybody I was dallying with it. There was no pleasure, really; my goal was to just get through it. Finally, one day I found I was not disliking it. In fact, I reached out for it, first, without thinking, without debating. I just...used it. Just like it wanted me to.
I still didn't talk about it. But I didn't hide it. Nor did I really enjoy it. It had just become part of a routine, enmeshed in life, an unspoken part of my day.
Then came the morning when it all changed.
I still have no words. As hard as I try, I find none. The experience was "meh" at best. Yet, here I am, not mourning as such...but...noting. But of course...once again, time spent on nothing.
A peculiar thing, this Secret Obsession. When we were alone, it rarely registered as anything; it was a functional non-presence. When I pondered it in the context of friends and family and readers, I was ashamed. Granted, there was that time in the middle, when I thought maybe I *did* sense something, when I might come forth and not only confess, but I would announce it was in my life and declare it good.
It was just a moment. A moment that led to so many more visits, attempts to recreate the magic, attempts that loomed as limitless as the seemingly infinite source.
Now we are done.
surveillance photo: author's own