Want is an odd word, a wonderful word, a word full of promise, hope, danger, and expectation, a word ripe with desire and rich with yearning, a word for ‘perhaps’, for ‘could’ –not for ‘should’-- there is no reason, no logic, it is pure and raw and strange and unfamiliar and unattainable and all the more covetable for it; and it hurts, and it aches, remorses, bleeds and cries with tearing agony thrust from a strangled throat; for it is suppressed, and it is repressed, and oppressed, and ignored and shunned; for if it weren’t, it wouldn’t be, any longer.
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