We are creatures of incredible confusion, animals from the mountains of misery and masochism. Freely roaming the roads of humiliation and contradiction. Love being the ultimate reason to go insane, we hold on to that as if it was the air in our lungs, the oxygen in our bodies. Instead we settle for the mystery and the deceit of others. The deception of love conquers our days and we suffer, loving each single second of it, hating all of its reasons. As if we need to go through this to know that we are humans, what defines our humanity if it’s not the cruelty we have enforced since the beginning of time. Killing each other for the only reason of fighting for what we think is ours..Destroying each other for mental reasons that only the human law can understand. We are soldiers, we are victims, we are killers, and we are human. How can we relate thousands of years in history to love? How can this relation be any different than Aristotle's theory on life and love or Edgar Allan Poe's cruel poetry? How can this infection of rage for love and desire to have it all be any different than our history which sets and controls our minds into what we think love is, or should be?

Selfishness, jealousy, and insecurity are the signs of this illness attacking each of us as an epidemic without a cure. So we live for unknown reasons some with a purpose, and most of us without a clue as to why we are here. Breathing. Living. Instead we consume our energy and our entire being into feelings that can’t be seen, touched, or heard, and with that we live intoxicated. Walking wounded with scars of hurts that will never go away, and feelings that won’t cease. What is love anyway? If not a feeling of destruction, a selfish feeling of wanting to belong. Wanting to be loved, unconditionally, as if that will ever happen.