Epistemophobia

he loved her, and he knew.

 and his knowing of so much about her fueled the individual  idea of his 'loving her'. 

ridicules as it may be, its the last shred of ease. 

He knew the way she ate the way she wined he knew what frightened her most and he knew how she looked when she started painting and how unclenched her face looked when she strains herself into painting something ugly enough, that it could shackle a nation.

He loved her and the knowing fueled the love because the deeper you go in the more it surrounds you. And the underrated phenomena of inhabitation occurs.

To live within the belly of the lover.

And so:

as she sat, overwhelmed, he held her. Rubbing his palm against her head, he held her because this was just the kind of overwhelm that when under you stay quit still and silent. And what you are reveals, deep at the core, lovely enough to be unbiased, just another dangling organism, barely pulled to a rock thats barely floating around another rock in a cesspool, of  glimmering, cruel rocks. 

There arent words nor paths, these are just moments in which you are misfortunate enough to have the insight that is massive and unravels, one more, heavy with rotten roots, inevitabile black hole in you, child to adolescent to man to old man, struck with the stupidity of happiness.

unraveling itself, is power, not the sort we organize and define, but the preexisting natural one, massive enough you stand back in tragedy, imbedded enough, you hardly try to alter a thing

And not everyone has that insight, but everyone asks: and then, you dont know what to say.

He held her, because she knows, and in that case the grimm and over present knowing, only fueled deepened dispare, rooted in ventricles, and the knowing only cripples.

you are forced to walk amongst those who greet and those who buy and laugh, stupid stupid, stupid.

he knew, and he held her, because now she knows too, and knowing is the worst.