"And then, there's another kind of love: the cruelest kind. The one that almost kills its victims...
We are the cursed of the loved ones. We are the unloved ones..."
So I've been thinking recently about the cruelty of love.
I mean, not to sound pessimistic, or cynical or over-dramatic, or anything, but specifically how painful and unwieldy it can be.
There are all the beautiful tales of boy-meets-girl and all the real-life stories of man-meets-lady, and many of them thoroughly lovely.
But then there are the untold tales. And the tales told to a certain few. The secret stories, told in confidence and allegiance. Of love lost, and love abandoned and love unexpressed.
Then there's the love spurned, which is perhaps the cruelest.
How often does it actually work out? I mean, really?
I think I'll just take a Sherlock stance, and see the world clinically and analytically, from a safe, unloved and unloving distance.
Much easier.
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