Desire for dinner

This is how it is with us. We desire. Even though none of our desires can ever be fulfilled. Be it for a thing, a person, a quality or an experience. In between the inception of the desire and its eventual fulfillment, the nature of our desire assumes unpredictable variations of theme and form, and so does the object of desire itself. To no end. What we end up with, is almost never what we started out to get. And even i we if do, it doesn't somehow feel like we thought it would. And even if it does, its is surprisingly fleeting, before the thought starts gnawing at the back of our mind: What Now? The only way for us to conclusively fulfill any desire is to completely posses the object of our desire. To consume it. To swallow and assimilate it into our very being. EAT IT. Decimate it in the fire of our bellies. And belch and burp and churn to break it down to it's very substance, till no boundaries remain between us and the object of our desire. And when that has happened, we then look at what we have done. We reminisce about the things we ate, and about how whole they were before we ate them. We wonder whether the aftertaste was worth the destruction. We lament, we cry and we curse the duality within our nature, for the fecal matter that remains. The aftermath of lunch. And then we call up our friends to go out for a change of scenery. And dinner.