Endless

They say, being in love is a feeling like toothache. Words spent describing are worthless; the only way to know is to experience it. And sometimes, it hurts as much, if not more. Though just because it hurts doesn't mean its love. How does one know if its love or not? Practical, floral, feasible, sensible, lyrical.... endless fruitless efforts of binding and defining the true free feeling responsible for all my bruises. The images keep re-playing in the mind like a broken record; the smile, favorite words in a funny accent, the warmth of the skin, the softness of the touch, moments of indifference, aloofness, the fire and smoke in the breath, the softness, words belying the goodness, words betrying quiet strength, the waiting, the meeting, the parting and the joining... images play on. Futile and aimless, the sensible advise of abandoning what will go nowhere is unheeded by the foolish, kiddish, screaming tantrums of blind heart. The heart truly has strings and when the moments gone do tug at them, it truly does go crazy. Like a lunatic's reckless non-stop cries for something he can't have. Some never learn, some never grow up, some endlessly repeat their mistakes. Is it merely human or it is inexcusable? Do I get a pat of understanding with the hidden sigh or resigned disgust at the endless strings of errors I keep weaving? How do I control the sensless, meaningless, pointless paintings my heart keeps drawing in its pursuit of the complete comfortable fulfilled love - none of which will bear fruition. I'm lost and defeated at both ends. At one side is the soft comfort of dreams impractical and doomed to be unfulfilled and the otherside is the deep dark abyss of practicality which leads to dry, cold and hard sensibility. Where do I go now?