Love.

Love is a complicated thing, one that I choose not to involve myself in. The twisted romanticism of something that is no more than a chemical in the brain has always confounded me, a being that has yet to experience the sensation myself.

The negative emotions are much more scientifically logical. While the feeling of love exists only to continue the human race, anger and hatred exist as instinctive reactions to help us fight for ourselves. For this reason, I find myself easily succumbing to more negative emotions, allowing my animalistic instincts to guide me as I continue my life and trusting them to lead me in the correct direction.

You may be wondering at this point why I feel the need to elaborate on this. The explanation for this lesson is shown in a story I am about to tell you about a woman named Ella Bradshaw.

Ella Bradshaw and I went steady for two years in high school after meeting each other in driver’s education when we were 15. After graduating we agreed to go our separate ways, or so I thought.

I was 21 when she found me at a bar, her hair blowing wildly behind her as she slammed open the door. A putrid scent filled the room as she stepped in, a crazed expression on her face.

“I love you,” she gasped, her expression fixed on me. With these words a match was lit and I could only see flames around me, a burning heat etching into my fragile skin.

This is where you find me, reader. I will certainly die in this fire. My instincts cannot save me now, as even that part knows escape is futile. Death is a part of life, and the key to happiness is accepting this.

So why is part of me so in love with the world in which I live, my heart singing for each moment as I fear letting go? I have only ever understood love as a means of reproduction, so why am I suddenly so in love with life?

In the end, nothing is certain, for there are no answers, reader.