This is old. Really old.

and there's always been something so desirable in desire. the longing and the seduction and the entirety of its beauty, and the promise it holds of potential to make everything so much better, and to change the ways of waking up in the middle of the morning and wanting to lie awake in the universe forever alone with nothing but the idea of what's missing in life to no sleep at all, to being so completely in love with the world and wanting nothing more than to simply be, and not exactly to live life to its fullest, but to be able love it simply for what it is and to understand how no matter how much you want and wish and wait, things will simply not fall into place, and that even if they do, eventually you will miss the thrill of the disorder and chaos that is now so far away that it could have been nothing more than a distant dream you thought you might have had seven or so years ago, when days were nothing but a blend of laughter and sun and home (such a sense of belonging), and life had always seemed so much simpler, like some sort of a jigsaw, before the pieces started to disappear and the need for completion became too strong to withstand, and the only way to fill the hole was for the walls around it to cave in...