clandestine enigma

I crave to spell the word “L-O-V-E” in its most complex approach; pronounce it in its most tongue-twistable elocution; heed it in its deafening gist; witness its excruciating performance; and worst of all, experience the torturing agony it offers.

People do usually agree to one fundamental meaning of it— a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person; a grouping of letters from the alphabet giving a wide-ranging implication. Love, as what I have understood in this word, simple means acceptance; considering one’s identity no matter what is his or her status in the society. Undeniably, the populace in this thespian world is experiencing uncertainty from battling against all odds to gain such affection. Though it can easily be achieved by some, many are still increasing their relentless endeavor of reaching and attaining the pinnacle of the warm attachment to someone. It hurts me so seeing myself chasing the same affection that many are hungered for. How I hope a genie in the bottle would appear to me and asks my wishes for, without a doubt, I will utter my personal aspiration— to be seized by the power of love.

From the secular point of scrutiny, disadvantages are having a pursuit with my desire: becoming a string-puppet paving the way to jeopardizing my own self, creating blueprint of possessions having the tendency of cutting the lashes affixed to me, and in due course, establishing selfishness and egocentricity. Nevertheless, the pang of torment it bequeaths to me will then be converted to prepossessing blissful melody.

Loving and hurting is a doppelganger in camouflage. You love to have escape from the dusk of your own world but ending up perceiving yourself wounded because of loving someone who doesn’t know how to love you back. I, myself, am also a prisoner of my own shadow and, as a captive who eagerly wants to have his freedom, I indeed forsaken my vintage silhouette and brought by the wind to somewhere I loathe to set down my individuality. I was just delivered to a place I considered as hell, for I received nothing but the sore of infatuation.

Love can kill and it is true! Though some don’t feel it and some just neglect it. Love is an assassin in disguise for you would clandestinely be hunted and after which, for no reason at all, suddenly put you to grave. That’s the reality of pursuing to cross the threshold of the gates of this affair. Two distinct ways will opt to bother you when you arrive at the crossroad: the way to delightfulness of having the perfectly bravura affair or the way to regretting of earning nothing but suffering...