Love is not the worst thing that can happen,
though it charts pretty high in everyone’s
top ten of pains without much gain. Oh, spare
me the romantic guff, the personal
stuff, in which I have no interest. It
is like a private joke, an anecdote
you have told so often that it fails to
raise a laugh. Love is not a life raft; it
is more the lies extemporised to win
over fellow castaways and avoid
being thrown overboard. You do what you
can to survive, regardless of the price
that others pay. The greater good does not
figure when equations are unbalanced
by butterfly effects of erotic
self delusion. The heart pumps blood to fuel
organs other than the brain. Love is so
inane, as described by centuries of
sickly verse. No, it may not be the worst
affliction, but it surely is accursed.
