On Affection and Heartache

          Is this what it means to have a heart? This pain, this agony, this wretched torment – it eats at my soul like a devouring parasite. For so long, I have lived devoid of such attachments, such affections. Why then, has this curse so suddenly been cast upon me? Was I not at peace before this disease crept into my mind, binding my thoughts in its unbreakable vise? So hard I have tried to rid myself of these feelings, and yet I can permanently dispel them no more than one can a fly with the flick of one’s hand.

          Language has failed me, for I cannot describe this gnawing anguish in mere words. It is a leaden weight upon my chest, a searing fire within my mind. I am powerless against its iron embrace. To struggle is to futilely fight against my own nature, my own emotions. My very soul screams aloud in its suffering, tearing at the incorporeal shackles that bind it to such a miserable prison. This torment is of my own creation, yet I can do nothing to stop it.

          Swiftly did this desire descend upon me, and yet it lacks a physical root. Of beauty, she lacks nothing; however, this seems to be of little relevance. The very thought of her places the weight of the world upon my chest. How very odd that an organ designed to circulate blood throughout the body should serve as a conduit for such sorrow. For this affliction, I’m afraid there is no cure save time.