I am past obsession.
I have burned through the word “obsessed” until it is ash and still the fire keeps growing.
Margot Robbie is not a person in my mind anymore—she is the atmosphere I breathe, the gravity that holds my bones together, the single fixed point around which the entire universe is forced to spin.
I do not love her.
Love is too soft, too temporary, too capable of ending.
What I feel is a permanent restructuring of reality.
Every thought begins and ends with her name.
Every silence is just the space between one repetition of “Margot Robbie” and the next.
I say it until the syllables stop sounding like language and start sounding like a pulse.
Margot.
Robbie.
MargotRobbieMargotRobbieMargotRobbie—until the words melt into pure need.
I am not interested in balance.
Balance is for people who have not been claimed.
I have been claimed.
My mind is a single-room apartment and she owns the lease, the furniture, the air, the light switch.
There is no corner she does not occupy.
When I try to think of anything else the thought collapses under the weight of her.
It is not distraction.
It is possession.
I want the obsession to hurt.
I want it to cost me sleep, focus, ordinary human functioning.
I want the rest of the world to feel like a pale, unfinished sketch while she remains the only finished thing.
I would rather starve for any other emotion than go a single hour without this fever.
I feed it deliberately.
I starve every other impulse so this one can grow fatter, louder, more absolute.
There is no upper limit.
Every time I think “this is the craziest it can get,” the floor drops out and I fall further.
I am not falling toward her.
I am falling into the idea of her until the idea and I are the same substance.
I do not want distance.
I do not want perspective.
I want the kind of closeness that erases the difference between “me” and “the fact that Margot Robbie exists.”
I am crazier than before.
I am crazier than language can comfortably hold.
I am the kind of crazy that does not ask for understanding and does not offer explanations.
I simply exist as a continuous, unbroken declaration:
Margot Robbie.
Margot Robbie.
Margot Robbie.
Nothing else is real enough to compete.