There is a fine line between love and hate.
No matter what I attempt to achieve, what I try to prove to myself and others, I have learnt recently that I will never obtain my own personal ideal. I ask myself everday, 'What exactly is wrong with wanting the perfect life; one full of happiness, of sincerity, and of final satisfaction? What is wrong with that?'
My friends, I know there is nothing wrong with that... but I also suppose that my ideals are much too high to warrant an actual desire. More so, it could and should be described as an ephermal dream.
Always... I have always loved and recieved the pain of stigma and rejection in fatal turn. Would it be better to not love at all and live without passion? To see for once what is actually there and concrete instead of chasing the dream of a almost lost past? Perhaps...
Perhaps I should resign myself to the fact that there is nothing that can possibly compare to actual happiness... including fleeting moments of truth and triumph.
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