μᾰνῐ́ᾱ • (mănĭ́ā) f (genitive μᾰνῐ́ᾱς); first declension

1. madness, frenzy, enthusiasm 2. mad desire, compulsion

Obsession is the ouroboros, a serpent devouring its own tail, a constant loop of desire and despair. The ancients, wiser than we credit them, understood this. Achilles was consumed by his wrath, Ahab by the white whale, and Narcissus by his reflection. To be obsessed is to lose oneself, to yield to the single-minded pursuit of something that might never be acquired. Yet, is it not also divine? Plato speaks of the divine madness in Phaedrus, an inspiration sent by the gods. He portrays it as one of the greatest gifts humanity can receive—madness as a divine force that pushes the soul to surpass its mortal bounds. This madness, Plato claims, is the source of creativity, of love, and of prophecy. It is the divine spark that pushes us toward something higher, something more substantial than ourselves. Yet it is also hazardous, a double-edged sword that can heighten or destroy, depending on how we wield it. Could it be that obsession, like this divine madness, is both a curse and a gift, the spark that ignites the fires of creation and destruction alike?

My obsession is not dignified or encouraged. It is a malady, a hunger that chews at my insides and refuses to be satisfied. It finds its prey everywhere—in the face of someone, in the cadence of a laugh, in the glimmer of glory, in a book, a note. It sticks to me like a second skin, a filter through which the world bends and reshapes itself into something entirely mine. The ordinary becomes extraordinary; the trivial becomes tremendous. Every moment, every half-formed gesture, is magnified under the lens of my scrutiny until it beats with life and meaning.

My obsession is quieter, more insidious, like ivy creeping up the walls of an old house. I did not choose it; it chose me, wrapping itself around my soul in whispers and shadows. It began as envy, as it often does—a yearning for something greater than the chaotic and catastrophic dullness of my own life.

It began so subtly that I hardly noticed it initially—a stray thought or curiosity. Then, like a spark dropped onto a dry tinder, it burst into a wildfire beyond control. It has been the same ever since. I might overhear a conversation, the words meaningless to anyone else, but to me, they ought to be solved or thought about day and night like a haunting chorus, replaying repeatedly until every syllable is carved into my sanity. I see someone pause at the corner of a street, hesitating before they turn, and I imagine their whole life stretching out before them, intricately mapped out in my mind. I don’t simply notice; I construct. I link narratives, assign motivations, craft connections. In my mind, I know them better than they know themselves, though not necessarily as individuals.

And yet, even as I build, I disassemble. The weight of my fixation is unbearable. Every detail must be cataloged, every nuance understood. I find myself standing outside their world, a voyeur trapped in the maze of my own creation. I observe as they move through their lives, oblivious to the chains I have wrapped around them, invisible yet indestructible. I know their habits, their patterns. I see them before they see me. I anticipate their movements, their choices, their desires. I become attuned to them in a way that is almost agonizing, my mind trembling with the intensity of their presence even in their absence.

It is not enough to know them—I must possess them, though not in the literal sense. It is the possession of insight, of linkage, that this thing desires. The knowledge that, in some small way, they belong to me, even if they don’t realize it. My obsession is not malicious; it is tender, intimate, and yet, suffocating. I once convinced myself it was love, but love is selfless, and obsession is not. Love seeks to give, while obsession seeks to consume.

There are instants when I detect it clearly, like the shift of someone’s muscles around their mouth. A micro mimic, something that can’t even be seen by the people who are unconscious of their surroundings. I, then, realize how far I’ve gone, how deeply I’ve lost myself in this thing’s existence. The shame is prominent, a giant bull in the pit of my stomach. And yet, even then, I cannot stop. I cannot turn away from the compulsion that drives me. It is a force beyond reason, beyond morality. It is primal, instinctual, a part of me as much as my own heartbeat.

I wanted to narrate a memory of mine here, but I won’t lie; there’s a certain discomfort in the recounting, an apprehension that lingers, and I don’t care to revisit the sensations that accompanied it. And no, my actions did not contain malice, only the continuous and curious murmurs of my inner voice out of concern for various reasons occurred at that moment. Anyways, as all things do, the moment passed. It disappeared into the anonymity of the city, leaving me standing alone on the sidewalk, the weight of my mania pressing down on me like a physical force. I told myself I would let go. But I knew, even then, that I wouldn’t.

At other times, you see, it is the very marrow of my existence. My mind does not wander aimlessly; it is fixed, resolute, tethered to ideals far beyond the momentary whims of ordinary people. My obsession is with perfection—not the shallow, modern conception of it, but the spartan, timeless beauty that speaks of something eternal. I do not merely pursue knowledge; I demand mastery. Every text I read, every language I learn, every experiment I conduct must serve this purpose. It is not enough to know the past; I must inhabit it, breathe its air, taste its wine.

I do not seek approval, nor do I care for the insignificant affections of others. My obsession isolates me, yes, but it also elevates me. To indulge in obsession is to walk the precipice of madness and genius. The world beyond my obsession seems pale, washed out, and unworthy. Even the faces of those around me blur into irrelevance unless they reflect the ideals I hold sacred.

Obsession doesn’t end; it only shifts, finding a new focus. Obsession is not meant to be resolved. It is meant to linger, to occupy every corner of your mind, to make the mundane extraordinary. It is the endless hunt for something that you know you can never truly possess. Perhaps that is the greatest obsession of all—the pursuit of a relation so intimate that it bends reality, a search for meaning in a world where the answer is always just out of reach.

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A new article named, “The Anatomy of a Villain: Hannibal Lecter (NBC)” is on the way. Stay tuned.