What is love, if not a form of suffering disguised as ecstasy?
A poison sweet enough to sip willingly,
even as it corrodes the soul from within.
Love does not uplift—it devours.
It tears through a man’s defenses,
leaves him trembling, bare,
stripped of the armor he so carefully forged to guard his heart.

To love is to become a slave.
Do not be fooled by the poets who speak of its beauty—
they know nothing of its cruelty.
For love does not ask; it demands.
It seizes the soul, drags it to the brink of madness,
and whispers, “Jump.”

And yet, we obey.
Why? Because to live without love
is to wander a barren wasteland,
where the silence is more suffocating than the pain.
A man who has never loved
has never truly lived,
but a man who has loved and lost—
ah, he knows the weight of eternity.

But the true torment of love lies not in its presence,
but in its absence.
For even after love has withered and died,
it does not release its grip.
No, it lingers—like a ghost haunting the ruins of the soul,
whispering promises that were never kept,
taunting you with memories
that burn like embers in the dark.

And so, we love.
Not because it saves us,
but because, without it,
the emptiness becomes unbearable.