Even self-love is often unreciprocated.

The weirdest of human emotions that one can experience is love.

Every artist who has ever existed has tackled this elusive and constantly evolving topic that none of us will ever, or should ever, understand.

I awoke today after a vivid dream of the person I have spent a year craving for. I spent the entirety of my day in bed after that, not wanting to face the world after the person in question had permeated my thoughts. I laid in bed and reminisced about the feel of their skin, their hands, their tattoos, their smell. I became so overwhelmed with loneliness and desire that even my friendly roommate's offer to bike ride through Brooklyn was refuted in favor of lying in bed and clinging hopelessly to this image I have created in my mind of this person I am so desperately, irrevocably in love with that I cannot shake him. Every moment of every hour this person stalks my life. Waking and otherwise.

What makes this so incredibly unfair is that I am no longer in love with the person. I am in love with the idea of the person I have built. I have this shattered heart that I am totally unwilling to let anyone even see, much less gain entry to, and for what? An image I have built. In my mind he is no longer mortal. He is this abstract perfection that doesn't even exist. He wasn't even that great of a boyfriend. But I want him so badly. And why? Because I can't have him? Because my pain is exacerbated by loneliness? Why, out of every man I've ever met, do I want this one? Is it for the mere tragedy of it? Do I just covet it because it is so totally and completely denied to me? Or do I just genuinely love this person?

I know that the majority of the time when I think of him all that I hope for is his well-being. I take comfort in thinking that whatever he is doing that he is content. Isn't that how you should feel towards someone you actually love?

I fantasize about seeing him again. But even in my fantasies I incorporate a level of reality. Even in my daydreams he hates me. So at least I'm not fooling myself.

I wrote this book hoping the demons would be expelled, but they weren't. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, right? But I feel like time is mostly just a turkey baster full of lemon juice that slowly allows itself to drip on your open wounds until they become infected and in need of a surgical consult. I guess that's why old adages hold little merit.

It is really unfair to have someone out in the world who could so easily be a source of happiness for you, but ultimately ends up doing nothing but causing this lingering, horribly burning feeling in your chest that destroys every true moment you may experience of joy, because they are not there. It leads to nothing more than making your life a mere mockery of what it could be.

Death seems like an escalator ride to the top floor of the mall in comparison with unrequited love.

Does the tormented animal that lives inside of you ever find peace?

Socrates said that the unexamined life is not worth living. But I disagree. The unloved life is not worth dying for.