Obsession!

Compulsion, tunnel vision, mindless, reckless, disbelieving, incomprehensible, incessant, obtainable, want, need, inconceivably stained and ragged. But that and more could never really define a beings' utterly unshakeable fixation on whatever and another. No matter the obstructions, unfettered by the thorny vines, surpassing limits and oneself, annihilating all impossible hindrances, the force that moves the sublime, metaphorical or otherwise, immovable object.
    It is my honest belief that whence a soul finds that which is its eternal -blissful or fiendish-  amphora, an effect rarely observed in significant measurements, takes hold. It is at this moment that a vicariously scintillating seed gets planted into the deepest, most remote segments of their conscious. A seed foretelling a saga of compulsion bordering on madness and ceaseless dehumanization of their now rigorous selves. This soon buds into a rattling jumble of all but 'The One' and tunnel vision is imparted. And this ensures that no matter the 'others' that ensue along with 'The One', all they are is mindless at best and reckless at worst towards these insignificant nothings (never mind that salt triggered revolutions). If its everywhere but there without any, then a sort of desperate disbelief for its all too imagined approval is what paves the way for the incomprehensible noises to calibrate into that which is indeed obtainable and now they can have what they want. What they need(!) and oh yes, they do require it to be so for the scratches and gashes, and the rips and tears, and the holes and the whole lot of other poetic (but they don't care if it is, they need) impairments that they've borne along the way, nigh inflicted upon themselves!
    But then there is the realization that there is in fact no cure for their now unbelievably stained characterizations (these being more of a metaphysical kind - souls) now laid bare in all of their ragged glory. So the need fulfilled, there is all save for the need that needs to be needed to make it perfect and were they as commonly as you and me, they wouldn't be this.. this wreck of a self now. They'd have their own scent -no matter the kind or designation- to cling to as their shadows cling to them, but they just don't.
    And pattern finds a way like always and the obsessed are engulfed in the brazen radiations of their once everything. That, or they drudge on like pride-less vermin till they do the above or cease to be. Its quite an intrigue really; as long as YOU don't be in their way, that is.