People say I'm obsessive, and I wholeheartedly agree. I'd die for a favorite artist, and I reread stories I like until I hate them. I force myself to love every song performed by "my band", to a point where I'm not entirely sure which of their tunes actually earned their place in my heart.
It brings to mind a modern-Hebrew term, "protektzia". It can be translated as social leverage, or "pull". Protektzia is when you are related to the administrator of an elite high school, or when you're friendly with the secretary of a sought-after doctor. It's as if songs walk up to me and say, "hey, I know I'm not that great, but I was written by so-and-so!"
All that changes when old Depression drops by. Suddenly, things I cared so much for are meaningless. It's like quarreling with a close friend. Although, I don't hate my former faves so much as scorn them, for being silly enough to exist.
Why does depression do this to me? Because depression is the drainage of passion. As a cow needs to be milked and a dripping air-conditioner needs a bucket, what are obsessions if not an outlet for the passion contained in the heart?
But neither are necessary when the cow is dead and the AC off.
Thankfully, depression to me is a mood rather than a condition, and so I host frequent reunions with my beloved idols.
You are all invited!

Always thinking,
Always fearing.
Always losing my control.

Could be better,
I resent her.
Write the letter of my soul.

Sweet obsessions,
Fear burning through my veins.
Sweet obsessions,
Questioning if I'm really sane.

It's so confusing:
The words I'm using,
To show the stories I have told.

Fight together,
Or against her.
The thoughts that I've heard are so old.

Sweet obsessions,
Fear burning through my veins.
Sweet obsessions,
Questioning if I'm really sane.

Suffering and obsessing,
Are the same thing or so it seems.
This obsession isn't sweet-
Constant thoughts of the fear to beat.

Sweet obsessions,
Fear burning through my veins.
Sweet obsessions,
Questioning if I'm really sane.

i'm collecting the times i wake up
already feeling my knees buckle
from the shame, the nerves, the stares.

i'm hoarding the clocks that i've stared at
throughout my adolescence
when the nights were long and my blood looked redder.

i'm keeping the tickets i used to escape
the rumble and the jumble inside the house
back then when the walls were thin and my skin was thinner.

i'm checking the numbers, the drawers, the walls
again and again and again
just to see if anything is about to break again.

A gap within my minds brigade
is the price, solemnly payed
weak- the bold brain's barricade

a barricade assumed concrete,
proven otherwise as I repeat
irrational- my slow defeat

Compelled am I, a victim to
intrusive thoughts I can't subdue,
to cease them truly, I've no clue

But I've a hunch that if I end,
consumption, and myself defend,
longer no more I'll haft pretend

No one can function at this pace
I wish always my steps retrace
back to run a different race
to end in a much different place.

She is an unhealthy obsession which fritters away my attention for anyone else, and whom I can only become haunted by and consumed by but never taken by.

It started with existence

just a lowly perspective of a mute
time when I was able to
make sense of this pressure
make sense of why
you are now here to guide me now
on this looser journey; a lonely crabapple
still grappling at shriveled skin creating a face
that I still
cannot
distinguish.
With the end of presence as we know it
you have finished, rightly
in my dressing room
bright screen lit up
but only for a moment do I dare look away.

It started with you, and it will end with you

Closed off from me, shortly
your bioluminescence radiant,
your perfection incomplete.
I’ve known you for six straight years
or was it five
just enough
construed construction, a bloated
piece of mind that left me free to wander
aimlessly down I path I cannot recognize.
It was you who caused my blunder,
keeping me awake every night
with your brightness and distraction and amiable personality.
I decorated you with bits of me,
tangled in and out like woven webs of cybernetics
optimal connections, you died twice and I revived you.
But that was in the past
and you still cling on, for how much longer
I shan’t not know.
Only that what it means to exist
when I should be letting go.
I have to face the trust of reality and its weakened points;
that dangerous, well-formed world I find myself in.
I hope you can follow me
as long as you are able,
my clunky plastic compadre
your heart is metal mixed with other
kinds of fragile contraptions.
I know this end to my happiness is not your fault.
You were there when I needed you most,
even if you are a tool of innocence turned foul.
I once learned all of existence from your knowledge,
gleaned myself raw
trying to let you help me
understand myself.
We are not truly over because I am bound to you
somehow
even though I’ve used you for my own gain
abused your trust and have my own heart slain.

All I ask is for you to give me a chance
to make it right

again.

And then I can move on to better things.

And not be obsessed of what you think of me.

And find a way to pull myself together.

I have everything - what do you have?
a loving wife, possessions - how about obsessions?
wishing for a younger woman, unlimited ***
conversational recognition to give you ignition

Put them aside - you had so many opportunities
they're gone - now grow up where you belong
you have dark moods, impatient, wished you were elsewhere
It's not the amswer - the answer is right before you

Transparent as the air that blows and caresses
your shoulders - only you have to take it under your wing
before the time is gone - even then you will be
holding hands walking together with your old smiles

You could start again - but it's best the way it was
there are no reasons - great love is simply because

No one could possibly know more than you.
It was physically impossible-
Right?
...
...
Okay, so maybe you needed to find something else;
Some other place: to target your energy,
                                to seek comfort,
                                to find inspiration.
It's alright sweety because there's a move for every rhythm.
The goal is to find your own rhythm before doing anything else.