Bliss.
The word entered his mind like an interloping Heartess. It didn't fit, and he had no idea what the hell it was doing there. There was absolutely nothing on his mind that could welcome the term, could take it without the urge to rip the feeling itself apart until it no longer existed in the world. Such an enticing state of being that shouldn't even exist — because if it was impossible for himself to obtain, why were others allowed the pleasure?
Lifting himself from the cliff bottom which he'd been leaning against, Vanitas began pacing, the unwelcome thought of the tantalizing emotion refusing to leave him alone.
Bliss. It seemed everywhere, and yet nowhere — because he could never gain it himself. For what being of darkness, corrupted enough that it could produce nothing else, would even have the capability of coming close to feeling such a thing?
There was little incentive for him to even try to obtain such a state of euphoria. What thrill would "bliss" bring? It was only a state of ignorant happiness, something that meant that the person having made a gain of that sort would ignore finer details only to dwell in their joy. The highest pedestal of emotion from which tearing a person down could make one feel most accomplished. If you could achieve that, what could you not do?
For this reason, Vanitas didn't need such a thing. It would be torn away — why bother having it in the first place?
Finally convinced of this, he pushed the word and any related thoughts out of his mind, returning to the seat which he'd been occupying previously. There were many things possible to think over, if needed, and that was one that was not necessary.
Ever.