23 Male. Writer, evil incarnate.
Love is a reflection of ourselves.
Pain is the memory of things we loved, and memory of things that have hurt us.
Dreaming of love only makes you a dreamer.
Love is as real as those dreams.
An echo of ourselves distant and beyond reach.
As fake as those aspirations of when you were younger and believed the world was kind.

Sometimes I wonder if faith is a replacement for love, but have had neither faithful friends or true love.
Is it selfish to envy those who are happy? or is human nature to want something that you so deeply desire.
Is it cruel to hate those who have love? is it inhumane to spit on those who wave love like a flag as you sit alone glaring with nothing but hate towards them, unseen by them, but they are more than seen by you.

Learn from my feelings, learn from my words, love is just a whisper, a dream you barely hear as you sleep, and a feeling of belonging amongst peers and loved one. Do not weep for those unloved, cherish those you hold close. Because in due time, we may get what we desire, in the grave, loved by those who have never known us, and held close by the earth's cold, uncaring, dark womb.