Love is this bane messed up sense of strong affection and attachment to the one that I cannot be with, for so many reasons that I cannot fathom.

I hate myself for being honest with what I feel.

I hate myself for clinging onto a ghost of a good thing.

As Sinatra once sang in his satirical take on the subject, we spoil good things by saying those three stupid words: “I love you.”

If only saying it is as simple as expressing gratitude to a wonderful meal, a lovely day or a favour rendered.

No reality is crueler than our imaginations because this entails an experience felt by a person for another person. Therefore it involves caring for or identifying with the object of your affection.

It is not convenient. It entails memories both good and bad. It takes us out of our comfort zones, it brings us fuller to our humanity than we can ever imagine. It incites desires. It fuels passion. It releases the devil in our emotions and the goodness in our beings. It stings as death. Its breath brings life. It confers choices. It bears consequences. It gives joy. It inflicts pain.

If only words are as simple as life…

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