Hers

She is not very beautiful. To be sure, she is not unsightly. She is pleasant enough on the eyes, but not the kind of woman who sets men's hearts aflame with passion whenever she walks past. She is not the paragon of femininity either, always laughing too loudly or cursing so violently that one is wont to wonder if she is truly a woman or merely a man masquerading about in feminine dress. But she is mine, or at least, I am hers, for she never returns my impassioned (although, admittedly awkward and clumsy) speeches and my meaningful gazes, instead choosing to laugh at me during the very few moments when she chooses not to ignore me.

I had been a proud man before I met her. I was esteemed among my colleagues and was widely sought after by mothers and daughters alike. Romance was the farthest thing from my mind. Dalliances, yes, I admit, were an occasional indulgence, but merely as trifling distractions and never central to my existence. But the first bloom of love changed me so completely, so thoroughly, that it has left me a new man, and not much of a man, in all honesty. I no longer recognize myself when I look in the mirror. Bedraggled wretch!

It has turned me against myself, doing away with any idea of self-preservation, of dignity, of anything else that had to do with selfishness and pride. What a miserable thing, this love! It has transformed me into a simpering, hopeless fool who no longer cares about his very life, his thoughts only turning to the other, the woman, the very cause of his own hurt and downfall! She views me as nothing but an insufferable pest, if anything at all, and turns her nose up at me when she sees me clambering towards her in my desperate attempt to convince her to at least, not even for an entire day, let me love her. Oh, if she would only let me. Pathetic fool that I am.

How savage is the world that offers you everything, yet denies you the one thing, the only thing, that could ever bring you that vile, poisonous form of joy that every man craves for from the unhappy moment he allows himself to become enslaved by love.

Drift

There are times when I catch myself longing to exist in a different world where you and I would make sense. However, I allow myself only a few moments of these delusions, after which I plant my feet firmly back on solid ground. If I, from my own indulgence, let myself wander off for too long, I fear that there would be no more hope for return.

Heart

It is a cruel, cruel business, especially when it is allowed to fester and grow inside you secretly, where it becomes a separate entity from you altogether, rising from the pit of your gut and branching out until it penetrates every nerve in your body, infesting every cell, rising, rising, rising, until you can no longer contain it. There is no escape from this foolishness, no respite from the sharp exhalations of breath, the mad imaginings of things that can never be, the utter hopelessness, and the slow, painful death of your spirit.

What I would give to be young and heartless again.

Pain

The most painful thing, perhaps, is not remembering things long past, but longing for the things that could have, might have, should have happened.