Souls are not born with such an appetite – they break through the structure of being.
She does not visit the body. She expands within it like molten metal in a mold too thin, until the bones respond with a dull crack and the skin stretches to the transparency of glass. There is too much of her for this likeness. Every touch only confirms: it is too cramped here.
In an embrace, she does not feel warmth. She feels a wall.
It is an attempt to plead with the ocean to fit into a fragile glass, naively called “love.” The hands that squeeze become shores – too close, too tight. They close the horizon. Instead of disappearing into unity, the soul crashes into the contours of the other as if into a monolithic stone.
She is incapable of dissolution. She is capable only of documenting the impossibility of that act.
Even when someone appears who should have become the perfect resonance – not flesh, but pure correspondence – peace does not arrive. This light falls into an abyss and finds no bottom. His presence does not fill the void.
It outlines its scale.
If even he is but a handful of sand in the ocean – then what could ever be the ocean?
The stars she touches fade from the excess of her mass. Her gaze does not seek light – it drinks it. Every spark becomes fuel for an even denser darkness.
A black hole, tired of its own weight.
And this darkness is not emptiness. It is supersaturation.
Excess without an outlet.
The geometry of this soul cancels the meaning of a boundary. It cannot be bypassed, held, or filled. Any “enough” sounds like a distortion, like an attempt to empty the sea with a thimble.
Therefore, closeness inevitably turns into tragedy.
Not because of a lack of feelings – but because of the very fact of measurability.
“I am with you” sounds like a reduction. “Forever” – like a prison sentence. The body – like a form deforming under the pressure of that which seeks to be everywhere at once.
And then the question emerges, which no tenderness can lull to sleep:
Is this thirst for absolute unity a memory of a state without divisions, where otherness did not exist?
Or is it a fundamental glitch in the structure – a defect condemning one to infinite consumption without saturation? To a loneliness that no presence will ever dissolve.
If no love is enough – it is not a matter of its measure.
This soul does not belong to the world of love. It is directed toward something that is not yet named. And perhaps never will be.