Love is a sick thing.
It toys with the mind like a cat with a lizard, leaving it broken and dejected without hope.
People cry: But love is pure and just! It doesn’t seek harm!
I scoff and shake my head, making no reply. Yes, it is those things to begin.
But look! Look at its endings!
Would something of noble cause require a woman to throw away her hard-earned freedom bestowed by the feminist movement?
Would something so esteemed work a man to death to provide for those he loved, only to have him die penniless and alone?
No answer, I hear from the masses.
How can they or anyone answer such examples, except to claim: bad examples! Or way-falls of fate?!
Such claims are childish or selfish at best, only willing to see the good, and discount the bad. But we cannot live naively, or risk missing out on what life has to offer.
I may sound to you as a bitter, despondent member of the unloved. You may spit at my truthful display of despair…
But heed this last warning, if you will: love is sick, it is true, but all the hate in the world brings no bittersweet joy as that heralded by the swift embrace of love. For love is many things, but useless is not one of them.
And even I, who despise love’s horrible countenance, wish yearningly for its tenderly twisted embrace.
So take care of love, do not forget the fall, because falling in love may sound enjoyable, but I daresay pain awaits you at the bottom.
Yet…may-hap the pain is what makes the risk worth taking…if only one wishes to try.
