A Being In the Age of Consumerism

I'm constantly searching for myself – That part which is essential, inherent. I sense its presence, it's somewhere within The being which echoes with infrequent shouts Of a neglected foreigner Who happens to live in my dwelling. But it's a language I can't comprehend; Only some fragments, and on rare occasions When we're at peace, like adults With altruistic motives. I'm persistent in my search So persistent that I tend to go outside In hope of finding The object of my pursuit. But I'm offered a wide selection of objects Each resembling that which I desperately seek. I consume, yet I'm the one who's consumed, Drained slowly, gradually Until the essence is left to evaporate As if its only purpose is to be absorbed Into bountiful void. I stuff myself with pleasures Until I dissolve in them, Become the object of my desire. Then the insight and rejection. Continuation of the search Of the lost one. But it is different with you, my beloved. You contain that spark Which will revive me. You can fill the gap, Complete the circle. Only a little more; I know I will find it. This is what I need, Is it not?