Treats

When you’re three years old, you’re obsessed with treats. Anything sweet, anything wrapped in pretty paper.

When you’re thirty years old, you’re obsessed with treats. Anything sweet, anything expensive, anything wrapped in pretty paper.

When you’re sixty years old, you’re obsessed with treats. Anything sweet, anything expensive, anything energizing, anything wrapped in pretty paper.

When you’re ninety years old, you’re obsessed with treats. Anything sweet, anything expensive, anything energizing, anything sublime, anything wrapped in pretty paper.

The funny thing about pretty paper is that it always supersedes what it conceals. Especially the things you want most. Your flawed mind writes a script, based on imagery and some kind of synthetic cognition, which forever remains a draft. 

The draft always becomes a tiny paper ball. The original doesn’t exist.

I am haunted and sickly thrilled by the fact that when I get exactly what I want, a part of me will immediately be disappointed, upset and confused.

The supreme object of one’s affection superiorly satisfies before, not after, it is acquired. The latter loses every time.

We treat ourselves, and still happiness is an unknown, an afterthought.

Wanting is primal. Achievement is not.

Pleasure is a moving target.