And in her heart, she was touched by another, though she denies it now. She buries it in facetious asides and feigned indifference - it pains me like nothing else. She uses me to hurt that person, hurting me in return. That's all right, I suppose. She is beyond me, anyways.
She is always at the front of my consciousness. I wonder if I can ever do things normally now. I can barely remember what it was like before I met her. How can a person remember events from before he was born?
There are dark feelings. My wish to be consumed in her, for example - to collapse into her brilliance. It would be a kind of catastrophe that no one would concern himself with. It would be like Icarus falling into the sea from Brueghel's painting.
Yet I know all along that this would be unfair to her. How that thought kills me.
What is love anyways? It is an end of things, not a beginning. It is the four horseman coming to rip the soul from earth, not the stately gardens of Eden glowing to shelter man. There is nothing now...
