Deep inside.

In some convoluted heart, a miserable emotion reigned in all its glory. It was less of an emotion, more of a sentiment. What is the difference, you might ask.
A sentiment, is just the less passionate version of an emotion. If emotion were a dark haired, dark eyed, bipolar beauty, sentiment would be the more sober version of that woman after attending rehabilitation.

It had started to feel like an emotion again. It was like an ocean wave, rushing towards the shore and becoming a tumulus, powerful emotion and the very next instant, it was retracting from the shore to go back to being a sublime and muted sentiment.

An undying obsession with wanting admiration. Admiration that would lead the admirer to ruin. An admiration which would destroy the admirer and empower her to a whole new level. An admiration which would mark itself by the twists and turns it made the admirer's wrist take while he held a brush, soaked in paint. An admiration which fed on his happiness and fed her with arrogance. An admiration that left him drowning in misery, with her being the only glimmer of hope, an only chance of survival.
An admiration that makes the admirer's blood run dry and fills her blood stream with an intoxicant.

Ah the pleasure, of having ruined someone's life. By not belonging to them because this emotion, admiration, is not love, no ownership exists. Destructing someone's inner temple where deities of self-respect have received adulation all their lives, razing that temple and filling it with turbid, putrid waters of self loathing and feeling an immense pride at having reduced the admirer, a monument, before he met her, to a mere pile of ruble.

The glory of having been admired and having become immortal in the work of the admirer.
The glory of being a muse.
The glory of being a conquerer.