Romance is a lie.
An illusion that keeps the senses alive.
The fools of this planet equate it with real love. I am a fool who refuses to be a fool. And so I struggle to promote real love, but even I got bored and confused. Curse of my humanity. I love and hate it at the same time.
I refuse to write a lie.
But this whole life is a lie; a place where you can find truth, but couldn't experience it fully.
Truth is death.
And the hedonistic/sadistic human nature refuses it. It wants pain, just so it can revel in the pleasure. It wants to live. It thirsts for its humanity.
I want that pain.
And I don't.
But I have.
So, romance, let me write you. Let me be mad. Let me be human.
