I don't seek understanding. Just pray for me.

The fatalistic homosapien in me would like to believe that the crux of this
sad sad issue would probably result in the dwindling of what's left of
my respect for love to possible oblivion.

Being cerebrally match-made does a great job of validating the fact that my friends seek comfort in assumptions of me. Comes with the territory of being too
annoyingly combustive in nature, for my own good.
I've learnt today that it is easier to feign annoyance,
then to address a whole plethora of isses; especially when dealing
with matters of such.

Apparently, the hands-on method is surprisingly easy to catch on to.
I'm a stickler for seeking perfection. In both the unfortunate ones
and myself. But thankfully, no-one briefed me on the issues
that came with the famous bitter-pill: disappointment.
That layer of skin definetely did not come easy. ("Desolation, desolation, i owe so much to desolation" --Jack Kerouac)

My poor easily-demarcated character.
Yet ironically, it still serves as a bane to others, rife with its alleged complexities that come packaged with it.
But it warms my heart to know that a shield would no longer serve its purpose if my achilles heel is marked with a generous cross-hair; ala Night Of The Living Dead.
And yes, i'm deathly afraid of the day i lose the resistance to hold up my ever-reliable sword.

I would prefer not to go trigger-happy with my heart.