Love, that damn love. I simply couldn't understand it. What was so great about that thing called love that people kept harping on about it? I used to dismiss love and fate as nothing but nonsense. I wondered why anyone would let their emotions rot and suffer while clinging to something until the very end; I considered it a sort of childish tantrum enjoyed by those with too much time on their hands. Anyway, it was ridiculous to see them go out of their way to wallow in obvious darkness, wasting time and shedding tears, and it was pitiful to see them inviting pain upon themselves.
Sadly, it seems that even I was no exception.
To me, you could say love was like a disease. A cure I knew all the remedies for, yet couldn't fix—or perhaps, an incurable one. In any case, that is how love was to me. I have experienced countless relationships over the years, but I had never felt such a emotion before. Our love wasn't filled with any special events or special encounters, nor were there any affectionate terms of endearment. There was only that love, nothing but love. Isn't it true that a disease hurts the more you endure it, and digs deeper the more you hold it in? Love was like that too. Because I couldn't speak and had to hold it back, love dug deep into my heart, took root, and coiled up to settle down. In the end, to cure that love, I had to cut out a piece of my heart. Even now, still. My heart remains hollow, filled with lingering regret.
W. Nabi