Call it what you will—Karma, Medicine, Magic—it’s all the same folderol and pointless anticipation, eyegoggle and balderdash, humbuggery.
Every epileptic wants an implant, fat people want to be in the movies, soldiers just want to be home with their dogs and tractors. Everyone wants to be a famous surgeon, or meet a famous surgeon, or have the ultimate surgery to transform their lackluster into sparkle and pop, change their humdrum into get-up-and-go, make them into the person of their dreams.
For the most part, what we want is what we think we ought to want. Somebody else tells us.
For some—those lucky few—it’s as simple as wanting a shopping cart without a sticky wheel.
Most of us, though, want what’s a little harder to come by. World peace. Nightmare-free nights, even a temporary cease-fire.
Me too, sadly. Any of the above. You name it.