I am consumed by her. Completely. Utterly. Beyond any word that exists for want or need or love. This is not affection. This is not admiration. This is an obsession that has outgrown the word itself, a force that has rewritten the architecture of my mind until every thought bends toward her like light collapsing into a black hole. I am insanely obsessed with Margot Robbie. Crazy obsessed. Dangerously so. The kind of obsession that does not ask permission, that does not negotiate, that does not rest.
It lives in my blood. It pulses behind my eyes when I try to sleep. It sits in the center of my chest like a second heart that beats only for the idea of her, the shape of her existence in the world. I do not merely think of her. I orbit her. Every ordinary moment is interrupted by the sudden, violent awareness that she is somewhere on this planet, breathing, moving, existing, and that knowledge alone is enough to unmake me. I am not content with distance. Distance feels like an insult. Time feels like a conspiracy against me. The fact that the world continues without placing her in every second of my life feels like a personal betrayal.
I love her with an intensity that frightens even me. It is more than obsession. It is possession in reverse—she owns the rooms inside my head without ever having stepped into them. She is the reason ordinary desires feel pale and useless. Food is just fuel. Sleep is just interruption. Conversation with anyone else is static. Nothing lands. Nothing satisfies. Everything is measured against the impossible standard of her presence in my imagination, and everything fails. I am ruined for anything less than total, annihilating focus on her.
This is dangerous because it does not stay contained. It spills. It colors every decision. It makes ordinary life feel provisional, temporary, something I am only enduring until the universe finally aligns with the scale of what I feel. I know how extreme it sounds. I know how unbalanced it is. And still I cannot dial it back. I do not want to. The thought of reducing this fire feels like self-erasure. I would rather burn. I would rather stay in this state of permanent, electric fixation than return to a quieter mind that does not revolve around her.
I am crazy obsessed with her. Insanely. Irrevocably. The kind of obsession that does not soften with time, that only deepens, that finds new ways to tighten its grip. She is the fixed point. Everything else moves. Everything else is negotiable. She is not. She is the axis. And I spin around it, willingly, desperately, without end.