Which is it?

The involuntary visits to the stone etchings,
The peals of laughter that echo the caves,
The wafting smells that emerge from hither.
The searing flame that burns inside.

The minutes and hours in contemplation,
The tortured writhing in the middle of the night,
The unlikely fantasies that play in dreams,
The time spent under a blanket, eyes closed but not asleep.

Where do they come from?
The source is unknown and can never be found,
Is it the idea or object that brings forth the trouble?
Is it the concept or prototype that needles the mind?

They say the trickling sand will work its wonders,
That the cycle of hands will mend it all,
But it hasn’t and for good reason,
The missing chapters leave the story untold.