Rebirth

The psychological description of an individual suffering from unsatisfied love - and his disturbing reaction to it.

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1. Rebirth

The heat is bubbling in my veins. Sweet and poisonous, it oozes through my body, trickling out of a little cut here or there. Stinging me. Every inch of my skin is on fire, but it's a good fire, it's a good fire and I encourage it by thinking about it, obsessing over it, shutting my eyes and seeing the heat run through them, because that way I make sure I don't stop feeling it. I'm outside, but the buildings all around me seem meaningless, a mixture of idiocy and hate, the one tied up in the other, never letting go. I don't see the buildings really - I see the fiery red in the veins of my eyelids because it's burning, it's so hot and it's so good. I don't even want to see the buildings. My target is a bit further, I still need to walk a while before getting there. But I can't forget the heat, or it'll all have been for nothing. Yes, yes the pain, the burning, the visceral assembly of overwhelming emotions, that's what I need right now. At least until I get there, until I get there and do what I have to do, and then it'll be done, and the heat will be gone, it'll get cold again, too cold, just like the other times. I just need to get there, quickly. One foot in front of the other, again, and again, and again, but never thinking about it too much, because if I think about it too much then the heat will go away. The people near the buildings, they're meaningless to me too, going about their pointless and redundant lives, pretending that they're happy, settling with what others imposed on them and convincing themselves that they have the life they've always wished for. But I know what they really want, because I've found it. I've found what we all want, and it's the heat, and the pain, and then to be released from it.

Flashing images dash through my mind as the heat rises. With each pang a new memory jumps into my brain, blinding me, hiding the buildings and the people and reviving the heat. A face, a face keeps coming back, and I know I've seen that face before, I know that I knew that person well, but I just don't know who that person is, because it doesn't matter anymore, all that matters is the heat. And yet the face keeps coming back, nagging me, reminding me of some long-lost part of my life that I can't bring back, and that I'm not even sure I want to bring back - and then suddenly, it's gone, it's gone for good and the heat dies down a bit, so I think about it, relentlessly, as my nails dig into my palms and bring the heat pouring out.

But then I see the face. It's standing in front of me, a few meters away. Its symmetry is horrifying, the sheer beauty of it brings my blood to boiling point and suddenly, I don't know what's happening anymore, but I know the heat is now gone and the long-awaited cold is pouring over me, and the face isn't so beautiful now, with the blood all over it. I guess I just gave it the heat. And the dagger that's in my hand, well, it's filling me with ice. The heat, the overwhelming and destructive unrequited love, well it's left me, it's gone, and the face won't make me feel that love again.

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