Fly closer every day, oh desolate lands of loneliness, and discover in each corner of this fragmented, delusional wasteland, on each continent of this dreary world, a leathery, beaten, wilted chunk of unmended heart.

Whither does one go? Here, dancing among the weeds of confusion, gallivanting among the aches of uncertainty, whither does one go?

To once again traverse the evanescing realms of passion, to reconquer the driest deserts of hope, one must accept a few inherent perils and gain the intimate acquaintance of Love’s greatest foe: Pain. For indeed, Pain walks on Love’s coattails, fully aware that a mended heart tears much more easily than one never broken. ‘Tis a battle often fought, and one in which we can’t hope to prevail.

So we hoist our sails in the wind, and we drift closer to loneliness, never knowing who we’ll meet, never certain with whom we shall fall in love, and never fully aware of which souls we might grant the permission to break our hearts.

Always, we are, drifting towards oblivion. Always, we are, on the edge of heart break.

Always, it would seem,

We are alone.


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