On My Own

What is the word for a person who wants and wants and wants over and over again that at the end of every wanting there is nothing but a big void of discontentment stamped beneath her heart? What is the meaning of all this wanting, of this craving, of this strong unyielding itch to accumulate, to own? What is this obsession?

I came home this afternoon with a paperbag of shoes and felt in my heart that there is something money cannot buy, or even erase. In the gravity of everything I own lies the greater truth of things: I am not satiesfied. The fearful fact is that there is no reason at all for this unsatisfaction. Because when they scrape my life raw and peek through the holes of my being, what they will see is a life well-kept. But is it? What I know is that for the longest time I have been trying to make myself believe that there is hope in moving on. But what I get from this is the sum of all my foolish attempts multiplied by the delusional dilemma of trying to get by on my own.

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