We must pride ourselves on our inability to act upon our premier thought of a particular action. From the smallest of hints breaching the frail walls of our even weaker, susceptible minds we fall to reflection of which has no comparison, to that of instinct. Obliged to disentangle itself with corruption by a thin strand of reason, our complicated disaster-stricken, war-zone, of a life-style stays free of the rashest of decisions. But on account of our overwhelming affection for those of which call upon our inner propriety, our already demeaning sensibility on the subject is cast aside by our immediate engagement caused only by that of which a question cannot be answered due to an infinite range of ever transforming emotions. From the depths of our souls, we bring forth the happiness and sheer joy of which we are endowed and desire to obtain ever so desperately. Yet within the same thought underlies the anger and raw frustration caused by such a passion that is so perfectly obscure and out of reach by the most miniscule of millimeters. Love, the simplest of words yet the most complex of sensations, usually followed by the moisture of our tears draining away our unsettled infatuation with every circlet plastered upon the earth of which it was conceived.