The more I understand my own appetite, the more I understand how far I am from satiating it. It is as though it spills out from me in every direction. I want to be desired; I want to travel, to paint or write, to be listened to and respected, needed; I want true family—whether that be children or not—I want, I want, I want. My appetite is vast, and I am in agony knowing myself to be unsatisfied.
