No idea why some are so compulsive and others not. Not sure what quality or faculty, or lack of same, produces fugitive impulse. If I enjoy it then I enjoy becoming an addict of it, whether the result is health or ruin or worse. The largeness and complexity of the world reduced to that singular thing. A moment dedicated to the pursuit of its pursuit.
Frenzy drives me and drives my friends crazy. They believe I have some control over it, or should, as if I am negotiating with a very reasonable demon. I must seem like such a sensible person otherwise. They believe intelligence is a controlling or mitigating factor, or should be, because it has been for them. Wit is a catalyst. Its grip is its grasp.
Temptation doesn't starve; hunger is fuel.
I don't yield any more, or very often any more, for this reason. There is a type that produces intense isolation. Loneliness, some free time to indulge it - the magnetism of more.
Few talk about their ecstatic desperation in terms other than fearful reverence or guarded comedy. There is an enormous roomful of people, few seem able to connect the most hopeless parts of themselves to the expressive faculties. Obsessions lurk in quiet places. Between there is the chatter.
Confession becomes testimony, shame rushing in to fill a cavern of urges.
There emerges the freedom from. Peace, of course. So, piety becomes practice. People will do anything for happiness, but that one thing.
Temperature only decreases by degrees.