I have been obsessing an awful lot recently. I’ve been obsessing about that rotten dirty old scrungeball. Going over it and over it in my mind. Over it and over it. Only I know about the scrungeball – it’s my own private thing, the thing that only I know about. So I can think about it and think about it to my heart’s content and only I know what I am thinking about. No one else can know. No one could ever guess. How could they guess – the scrungeball is my own invention and I have never told anyone else about it. I never will. I’ll never let anyone find out about the scrungeball because it’s my secret. It’s the source of my power.
It used to be the source of my power but now I’m starting to wonder if it hasn’t turned against me. It’s got so that I’m thinking about that old scrungeball all the time. Someone might be saying something but I wouldn’t hear them because I’m so caught up with thinking about the scrungeball. Thinking about the scrungeball, thinking about the scrungeball, thinking about the scrungeball. That’s what I’m doing. I had tuned out you see – I was no longer interested in the outside world. I had tuned out of the outside world and retreated into my own private thoughts, my own private world.
Thinking about the old scrungeball. Thinking away about it. Turning it over in my mind. Brooding morosely over it. Brooding over the world I had made. So what if there wasn’t very much in it – it was my world and no one else knew about it. No one could know about it because I would never tell them. I would never ever tell, because that would spoil the whole thing…
Only I’m telling you now. I’m spilling the beans. I’m coming clean about this secret of mine because it has turned against me and the only reason it has the power that it does is because it’s a secret. So I have to tell. I want to cure myself of this dark obsession. I want rid of it. I want out. I want to get it all out in the open. It just isn’t fun anymore, knowing something that no one else knows. Thinking about the scrungeball doesn’t do anything for me anymore. It stopped being fun a long time ago. It’s turned rather dark, to be honest. Very dark, actually. So dark so dark so dark. Dark dark dark.
Do all obsessions turn as dark as this? Is it wrong to have obsessive thoughts, to nurture and encourage them, I wonder? It occurs to me that it is wrong. It occurs to me that I have created something evil, something sinister. Something with a life of its own…
Now that I come to think about it I don’t know if I can break the secret – I don’t know if I can tell anyone else about that rotten old scrungeball, even if I want to….