The uniquely introspective question every juvenile asks themselves during the excruciating course of an ill-prepared meal. Will I receive the confectionery goodies after and for my sufferance? Will it (and I) be worth it in the end? The answer however, by some freak misfortune lies, rather peevishly, aloft a menacing tower of retrospective terrors. When we kindle the flames of love it is never with the ebbing expectations of failure and dreadful alienation. When we answer the call only the implicitly irrational entities known as our "hearts" hear it is without hesitation (often times) that we go jumping and skipping at the very real risk of falling to our deaths. There's one question we should be asking ourselves and our accomplices: what then happens if and when Love dies? Who will bury him/her? Who will mourn them? Where will Love go after their death? Alright, maybe the queries are more numerous than I have been led to believe but my entreating stands and with veracity. Just as a child gobbling down the few remnant bits of a negligible dinner has his thoughts and focus trained on the prospects of a smooth session with a delectable treat, so too should the hopelessness of lovers be curated by a foreboding sense of the impending if not inevitable demise of affection.

To clarify, I am not a "cynic" nor am I advocating for the altogether culling of idealism and romance, a despot I am not.