On Desire, Curiosity, and the Rabbit Holes That Find Us

Contemplation of desire. What does it mean to want something? Not just to need or to seek, but to want—to feel the sharp pull of longing in your chest, the quickening of breath, the narrowing of vision that locks onto an idea, a person, a possibility, a question. Desire is an alchemy, a delicate mixture of emotions, chemistry, and instincts, its essence shifting and shimmering like light on water. Desire is not a passive state—it is a force, a charge of energy that consumes and propels us. But what is its true nature?

Is it focus—the singular sharpening of vision that tunes out the world, locking onto a singular, luminous thing? Is it elation—the spark of levity and lust that rushes through us when we taste the first hint of what might be ours? Or is it the ache of satisfaction—the quieter, lingering hum when longing is finally resolved? Perhaps it’s harmony—the floating sensation of the world falling into place when we discover that what we’ve sought is also seeking us.

And yet, there’s something else to desire—a fragility, a danger, an inevitability. What of the things that seem “too good to be true”? Have we, in our cynicism, grown wary of those flashes of brilliance that light us up, fearing that they will inevitably slip away, leaving us colder than before? Have we stopped believing in joy because we fear it won’t last—or worse—out of a quiet, creeping belief that it isn’t real, or that it isn’t for us?

The Lustful Yes of Youth

I think back to my mid-twenties, when desire felt electric, alive in every step I took—a fire that burned brightly and without restraint. The world felt vast and electrified, every step laden with potential. Strangers weren’t just people passing by—they were possibilities, doorways to adventure, stories waiting to unfold. Every invitation and opportunity seemed to elicit an unbridled and enthusiastic “Yes!”

This was before the age of public voyeurism, before every interaction became content, before every word, photo, or fleeting moment was flung into the ether for likes, comments, and reactions. We did things for the sake of doing them, for the inner fire of curiosity and connection. Back then, desire wasn’t polished and performative—it was raw, imperfect, and gloriously human.

There’s a freedom in that kind of unselfconscious living, the kind I find myself yearning for now, even as I write this and send it out into the world for others’ eyes to discover. But hey, evolution is great, right? We adapt, we grow, we shed old skins. As the greats have written for generations before me: Goodbye to all that.

The Chaos and Beauty of Inspiration

And where does inspiration come from now, in this polished world of endless scrolls and careful curation? For me, last night it arrived in the chaotic mess of Anora, a film so disjointed it felt like it might crumble under its own ambition. The story twisted and folded in on itself, its imperfections glaring—but within the cracks of those imperfection were truths so raw they shimmered. There’s something intoxicating about a piece of art that doesn’t hold itself together, that collapses under its own grandiosity yet resonates in contemplation for hours or days to come. A reminder that inspiration doesn’t have to be tidy—it can be raw, fractured, and entirely unexpected.

Later in the evening, I found myself on the rooftop of one of San Miguel’s hip millennial bars, the kind of place where laughter and fairy lights mingle in the air—alongside the hum of possibility. The air was warm, the city alive beneath us, its colors muted but still vibrant under the night sky. The skyline shone with possibility, and before long, I wandered into Johnnie’s piano bar, greeting an old friend at the microphone and joining him to belt out a few impassioned bars of Phil Collins’ Against All Odds.

We sang with reckless abandon, as if time had folded in on itself and brought us back to something simpler, freer. The night swirled with a strange alchemy of memory and presence, nostalgia and novelty. Spontaneity. A spark.

Inspiration is funny like that. It doesn’t come when it’s called. It sneaks in through cracks, finds us in the chaos, in the unplanned, in the fleeting moments that feel like magic. [And Then The Flash…]

The Rabbit Holes We Fall Down

We call it “falling down a rabbit hole,” as if curiosity is a kind of accident—a detour from the linear path of productivity. But is it? Or is it something more sacred, more intentional? To fall down a rabbit hole is to lose oneself, to be swept away into another world, to trade the linear path of “getting things done” for the winding, unpredictable roads of exploration.

Today, I found myself diving into the world of matcha, exploring how it’s grown, harvested, steamed and ground. Was it a distraction? Maybe. But I wanted to understand why it tastes like the earth and the sun combined. My search led me to the Camellia sinensis plant, then to memories of my childhood home, a Craftsman-style house flanked by two towering camellias. In my earliest years, those trees were my markers of time, moving through the seasons as I grew.

When I was big enough to climb their branches, I discovered new vantage points—glimpses of the world from higher up, where everything seemed just a little different, more exciting—possible. Those trees taught me something about perspective, about how small shifts can make everything look anew.

It was in that same house, with its wide green siding boards and familiar corners, that I first read Excursion to Enchantment—a book gifted to me on an ordinary afternoon that soon became extraordinary. I spent hours in a lean-to fort by the house, lost in its pages and dreaming of faraway places. It wasn’t just a story—it was a promise that the world was vast, full of mysteries and wonders waiting to be discovered.

The Nature of Desire

Desire, I think, is curiosity turned electric—a force that compels us to seek, to reach, to stretch beyond the safety of what we already know. It’s the soul reaching outward, searching for connection, beauty, and understanding. It is dynamic, alive, constantly shifting. It demands motion, engagement, and surrender. It asks us to lean into the unknown, to embrace uncertainty—to let ourselves be moved.

We often misunderstand desire. We treat it as indulgence, dismiss it too easily. We worry about wasted time, distractions, the dangers of wandering off-course. We can’t risk taking the scenic route anymore, there’s a list needs marking off. But curiosity and engagement are not enemies of time—they are what keep us alive, what make us human.

And yet, we fear it. We fear the vulnerability of wanting something we might not get, of chasing something that could slip through our fingers. We fear the fragility of elation—the high that might crash, the glow that might fade. But isn’t it better to burn brightly for a moment than never to light the flame at all? Desire isn’t something to resist or control—it’s something to embrace, to let shape us, to let lead us somewhere new.

Was my exploration of matcha trivial? Perhaps. But it tied the present moment to the roots of my past, lighting up a part of me I hadn’t touched in years. That’s not wasted time—it’s reclamation.

Chasing the Rabbit

Desire, curiosity, inspiration—they are not distractions. They are the lifeblood of our humanity, the forces that pull us toward what makes us feel alive. Call it a rabbit hole, call it a spark, call it whatever you want. Just follow it. Let it take you somewhere unexpected. Let it remind you of what it feels like to want something with your whole being.

So here I am, in one of those faraway places I used to dream about, writing about the soul’s innate pull toward what brings us light, joy, and levity. I don’t care what name you give it. Chase it. Dive headfirst into wonder, into longing, into the places that stir your heart and spark your mind.

Because it’s not about where the rabbit hole leads—it’s about what you find along the way.