That insatiable hole

I've come to believe that each of us is born with a hole at the very centre of our being. As we grow older, we become more and more aware of it. And with that awareness comes fear, and in our fear, we try filling that hole, hoping to satisfy the void with things material.

We throw cartons of cigarettes, and cases of beer, and tons of sand from exotic beaches, and double promotions, and medals, and trophies, and spring and fall and winter collections, and gems and stones and precious bones, and shiny gadgets and botox dreams and four-wheeled metal beauties, and guns and glory, and glitz and glamour, and a room full of lovers, and a house full of money, and poolside caviar, and frequent flyer miles, and scuba gear, and parachutes and bungee cords, and engagement rings and eternity bands, and degrees and diplomas and PhD's, and art and literature and science, and philosophy and religion, and yoga mats and marble saints and arms-length charity, and every conceivable obsession into the hole, and yet we aren't able to fill it.

And if the hole were able to speak, it would simply say: show me love.