From the days of arranged marriages to the current remarks about **** culture, it seems that no one is ever meant to be happy. Either settle or keep their peace, and understand that for every idiom there is, another is written to contradict the former. For example: The pen is mightier than the sword, but leave it to a lover to stab you in the back.

The same finger you use to wipe a tear will later be used to point and accuse. This is the figurative punch called emotional abuse. It's the air that escapes your lungs faster than leaving the atmosphere, ascending to a place called Heaven, but free falling to a home known as Hell.

What starts out as fingertips delicately caressing skin leads to a poke then a piercing sensation. It's standing with your right hand over your heart, speaking trivial, incoherent words, as your left side goes numb and your newly acquired slack jaw can easily be the reasoning you never hoped for.

Only a misanthrope can find understanding in distance, knowing that it has nothing to do with making a heart grow fonder. Isolation is conceived with a utensil, using a wandering eye to beseech a vast vocabulary and an abundant color palette.

The man that wrote purple mountains majesty wasn't staring at a landscape, but rather a wall in a room with a closed door. And every love letter written was never meant to be sent, it was only after something was lost that something was gained.