To truly feel a thing is to attribute to it a significance beyond all comprehension. To be utterly enveloped in one's own sentiments, for feeling to overcome all thought, is tantamount to drowning; the spurned lover commits suicide because the beast of a human being who performed the act of spurning has taken on a value beyond themselves. They have become the sorry receptacle of dysfunctional dreams, a punching bag for the immature philosophy of those who refuse to abandon hope yet think, feel, behave and, occasionally, even write as though they had attained some wondrous insight into the allegory of life. I pity neither.

Yet, it has never been enough for me simply to love. I am constantly in love; I am besotted by the near-photographic idylls I snap in the blink of an eye and charge with fictitious strands of poetry ripped from the depths of my consciousness. I worship the radiant beauty I once saw and smother it in perfume - no! In the smell of lingering perfume in an unchanged pillowcase - for now I have a fantasy (a memory, the ripest of all grounds for such) contained within a fantasy. That radiant beauty is the heart-wrenching splendour of something which cracked into a thousand pieces before my eyes, before I had so much as laid my hand upon it. So radiant are my thoughts that I convince myself that the loss they represent is as real as the spark which created them; I stagger from place to place tormented by passions I have never felt, kisses I have never received! That I love cannot be denied. Yet the very force of that raw, unbridled feeling - so unbecoming of an introvert like myself - throws itself quite deliberately in front of a train of metaphors and dreams. I think so much that such feelings cannot hope to live long without facing annihilation.

So it is that I punish myself for being human. To contradict one's own sentiments with metaphor, smilie or song - that is the root of Sadness!