“Liberty without socialism is privilege and injustice; socialism without liberty is slavery and brutality.”

From God and the State by Mikhail Bakunin

 

 

The Anatomy of Obsession & How Brutal Honesty Became My Only Luxury

Obsession is misunderstood.

People think it’s a weakness. They think it’s desperation. They imagine trembling hands and unanswered messages and someone losing themselves over another person.

They’re wrong.

Obsession is focus sharpened to a blade.

It is what happens when the mind refuses dilution. When desire refuses moderation. When attention stops being polite and starts being absolute.

Most people skim through life. I don’t. I don’t skim emotions. I don’t skim interests. I don’t skim people. When I want something, I lean in until it consumes oxygen.

And that is where the fear begins — not mine. Theirs.

Because obsession is power when it is conscious.

Unconscious obsession is chaos. It begs. It chases. It dissolves.

Conscious obsession studies. It measures. It waits. It chooses.

There is a difference between being consumed and deciding to burn.

I have done both.

The anatomy of obsession, if we’re being clinical about it, has layers:

First comes recognition. Something sparks. A mind. A voice. An idea. A body. A possibility.

Then comes fixation. Not in the hysterical sense — in the deliberate one. Patterns are mapped. Weaknesses noted. Depth evaluated. I want to know how far it goes.

Then comes integration. The object of obsession is no longer external. It is studied until it becomes architecture within me.

This is the part people never understand.

They think obsession is about possession.

It’s not.

It’s about absorption.

But obsession without honesty becomes rot.

And I have no tolerance left for rot.

There was a time I romanticized illusion. Soft lies. Convenient narratives. The kind of mutual delusion that lets two people pretend they are special while ignoring the fractures under the paint.

It’s intoxicating — fantasy usually is.

But fantasy is cheap.

Brutal honesty is expensive.

It costs comfort. It costs admiration. It costs relationships that only survive on politeness.

It costs being liked.

And I paid.

Because at some point, I realized something simple: I would rather be feared for my clarity than loved for my compliance.

Honesty became my only luxury because it is the only thing that cannot be taken from me.

Money fluctuates. People leave. Bodies age. Attention shifts.

But the ability to look at something — or someone — and say:

“This is what it is. This is what I feel. This is what you are. This is what I am.”

That is sovereignty.

Brutal honesty stripped me of softness that wasn’t real. It removed excuses. It exposed my own selfishness, my own hunger, my own contradictions.

It also freed me.

When you tell the truth — especially about yourself — obsession transforms.

It stops being frantic and becomes selective.

It stops being a need and becomes a choice.

I no longer obsess because I lack something.

I obsess because I recognize something worth magnifying.

And if it disappoints me?

The blade falls.

Velvet.

Clean.

 

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⢶⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⡶⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⢸⣆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣤⡀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣰⡇⠀⠀⠀

⢀⠀⢱⡘⣿⣧⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣰⠟⣫⣿⡏⢼⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣼⣿⢃⡜⠀⣀

⠈⢷⣷⣽⣿⣿⣿⣷⣤⣀⠀⣠⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠻⣟⣿⠷⠖⠚⠓⠒⠲⠶⣤⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⠀⢀⣠⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣮⡾⠁

⠀⠀⠹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣯⡛⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⡾⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠹⣦⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢛⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠐⠬⢽⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣬⠆⠀⢠⣿⠀⢰⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣰⡄⠀⠈⣷⠀⠰⣥⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣯⠥⠄⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠒⢒⣻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣄⣿⡇⠀⣾⣿⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣿⣧⠀⠀⢸⢀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣗⠒⠂⠀⠀⠀

⠒⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⡀⢻⡏⠁⠠⠀⠀⠀⠘⣻⠟⢀⢀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠶⠔

⠀⠀⠈⢹⠉⣁⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣔⢃⢠⠁⠂⠀⠀⠀⠉⢀⣤⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣤⣉⠉⠉⠉⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⢫⠿⣫⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣶⣶⣶⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠿⣝⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⠉⣹⣿⣿⡿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⣟⠋⠂⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡾⢿⣿⠟⠁⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢭⡳⡽⠻⠩⠃⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠈⠻⣿⡿⣷⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠀⠀⠈⠉⢿⣿⡏⠝⢿⣿⣿⣿⣏⠳⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⡿⠯⢻⣿⡿⠙⠁⠀⠀⠉⠀⠀⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⠈⠀⠀⢿⣿⣿⣯⠻⡆⠀⡄⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⡿⠀⠀⠁⡟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠋⠃⣿⣷⡄⣸⡇⠄⠀⢸⡟⠹⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠹⣿⣿⣿⣷⡐⠄⣼⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠸⣏⣷⣠⡟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠻⣿⡿⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

 

 ꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
✮⋆˙ ☠︎︎ ★☠︎ ✮⋆˙
₍^. .^₎⟆

“There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen, I now can see no more.


—But there’s a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look’d upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?”

― William Wordsworth, Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood