Souls are not born with such an appetite \u2013 they break through the structure of being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In an embrace, she does not feel warmth. She feels a wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It is an attempt to plead with the ocean to fit into a fragile glass, naively called \u201clove.\u201d The hands that squeeze become shores \u2013 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She is incapable of dissolution. She is capable only of documenting the impossibility of that act.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Even when someone appears who should have become the perfect resonance \u2013 not flesh, but pure correspondence \u2013 peace does not arrive. This light falls into an abyss and finds no bottom. His presence does not fill the void.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It outlines its scale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If even he is but a handful of sand in the ocean \u2013 then what could ever be the ocean?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The stars she touches fade from the excess of her mass. Her gaze does not seek light \u2013 it drinks it. Every spark becomes fuel for an even denser darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A black hole, tired of its own weight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And this darkness is not emptiness. It is supersaturation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Excess without an outlet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The geometry of this soul cancels the meaning of a boundary. It cannot be bypassed, held, or filled. Any \u201cenough\u201d sounds like a distortion, like an attempt to empty the sea with a thimble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Therefore, closeness inevitably turns into tragedy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not because of a lack of feelings \u2013 but because of the very fact of measurability.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI am with you\u201d sounds like a reduction. \u201cForever\u201d \u2013 like a prison sentence. The body \u2013 like a form deforming under the pressure of that which seeks to be everywhere at once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then the question emerges, which no tenderness can lull to sleep:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Is this thirst for absolute unity a memory of a state without divisions, where otherness did not exist?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Or is it a fundamental glitch in the structure \u2013 a defect condemning one to infinite consumption without saturation? To a loneliness that no presence will ever dissolve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If no love is enough \u2013 it is not a matter of its measure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Souls are not born with such an appetite \u2013 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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[56],"tags":[114,113],"zbirnyk":[],"class_list":["post-4137","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose","tag-body","tag-love"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n