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He woke up and she was there and that prescience of her there, that foreknowledge, it was overwhelming and almost like sun-glare and he basked in it. He loved her; he couldn't tell her enough, could not rationalize it, could not explain it, could not say it in such a way where he could make her understand. He'd abuse more those stupid three words wearily, kiss her, drink in her smell, and as his hands made out her topography, he sighed a deep sigh. This was enough. This was life-sustaining. This was what all his life he had longed for and wanted and been in the deepest Hell having gone without so long.
He woke up. But that was pejorative; he had hardly slept. Could not sleep. He tossed and turned in the throes of restlessness and lovelorn madness. He was in his room and yet he wished he was at least looking for her but he didn't know where she was or where he could find her. So he thought of her, he tried to be closer to her. But it just robbed him of the want to live. It robbed him of rest. It robbed him of being okay in this depthless life that he had ere long been living. She was not there, she did not love him, and the stark reality was tearing him apart.
He loved her more awake then he loved her asleep. Awake she looked at him with those haunting, longing eyes that put fishhooks in the bottom of his stomach just knowing she was looking at him. The whole world to look at. And she looked at him. He did not feel worthy. But he could not help but to bask in her. He could not help but to kiss her hand, to stare at her as though he had spent his whole entire life looking for her. For it really had been so. He moved in nebulous happiness and was unused to it. She kissed him on the lips and that consumed him. She had won him over without so much as a fight.
He warred in the silence that his life had become. His life did not have meaning nor motion and he could feel these flaws of himself acutely, painfully even. Without purpose or duty or reason, he set to battle on himself, he fought himself, deep inside, writhing and sighing and smiting his thighs, clawing and grinding his teeth. He hated himself. He hated the world. He hated everything. Because he wanted love but he did not know it, could not know it like this, where he was, in this dungeon, in this dead end he had fallen into. He gnawed in a fit of rage, simmered and stewed and pulled at his hair.
He walked with her and wherever they went, he felt like a king, like Lancelot, like a god because of her. Because of how she made him feel. He held her hand and it was electric. The world was his and he could do anything he wanted and all he wanted was to be with her. He danced with her. He hiked mountains with her. He held her at sunsets and just... breathed. And never in all of his life had he felt so happy. Had he felt so good. Had he wished for and been given more.
He walked downtrodden with empty eyes as though Dante following Virgil through Hell. The wind felt like a tyranny. He walked down the streets lined with houses and stared bleakly at them. Hundreds of doors. And all of them locked to him. He did not understand. He felt something inside himself but he could not rationalize it, could not make it real, could not use it, could not share it, could not give it, but it was there and it was driving him mad. He scoured the landscape of the Earth, always lost, always unforgiven, always looking for and lost, always moving as though a wounded animal.
He made love to her and everything felt like justice. It was though the grievances of a wasted life were at last being recompensed to him. It was as though he were making a deathblow to the world merely by loving her but he could never just merely love her. For he was rapt to her. He loved her in a way that was fanatical, delirious, zealous, maddening, and this close to his goddess was enough to make him believe that anything was possible. He breathed her air, he breathed her, her sweat mixed with his, she straddled him, they were one and it was justice against a wasted life and a world with which he had never belonged.
He closed his eyes and tried to feel like she was on him but it was no use. The need ed to him and he replied but it was bitter and he hated it. He twisted in the shallow, base thoughts and gave friction to his outlet but at the end, he did not feel gratified. Only used. Only depleted and weak. This was not love, could never be love. And he hated being alive when it was like this. When it was alone and stagnant and Stygian. He hated being alive. There was no reward that could blot this out. Love to him was someone who stayed. But he was alone. And he could feel it so strongly that it was like a sword raised over his head, threatening him.
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