Branded

I've been thinking about purely private obsession, the grip of the wholly inexplicable. The claiming desire, some fascination --sometimes kink, sometimes compulsion-- that puts down roots in your young skull and stakes a permanent camp. Some ceaselessly hectoring curiosity that won't leave you alone, and ultimately defines you and how you'll spend (or waste) your time and what you'll want from your life.

It's a narrowing, and generally happens early. A grip your head puts you in from which it has no intention of releasing you. Childhood's cattle brand. You will love me always. You will follow me forever, and wherever I lead. You will serve me until the end of your days.

There are a million tiny and ridiculous ways a person can be sidetracked and carried away, from the narrowest path off the main trail to a pitiful, dribbling creek or the most destructive, raging cataract.

But in the end you become a hostage to who you are, to what you want, what fascinates you, what breaks you down, what holds you under; the sense you feel compelled to build, the truth you try so helplessly to construct, the who you ultimately and helplessly are.

So there, I guess, it is, the truth that sits across the room every night engaged in a staring contest with me: I am a hostage, locked up with the eight-year-old boy I once was.

I think I've finally decided I'm fine with that. I love that kid’s dreams.