When did love ever hurt? Always.

What is love?

What is this love, this muse that begs for poems, this reason we claim to breathe?

Is it a heady vintage, a sweet intoxication that numbs the world into a blissful haze, a grand delusion painted in rose hues?

Or perhaps it's a wildfire, a contagious frenzy that sweeps us into the heart of the crowd, urging reckless abandon and words left unspoken on calmer tongues. Does it render our minds like empty vessels, swirling with emotion and incapable of logic's harsh whispers?

We celebrate love's power, its ability to sweep us off our feet. Yet, this very power often renders us helpless, puppets dancing to its whims.

If love truly is akin to intoxication or mob mentality, as I've described, then why this relentless pursuit? Why the endless poems echoing the same bittersweet cry: "Love hurts, but I want you so!"

Isn't this, at its core, a form of masochism, an addiction to the very thing that wounds us? Literature overflows with tales of love's destructive force, a morbid catalogue of suicides fueled by passion's flames.

And yet, we don't condemn love. We romanticize Werther's demise, finding a strange allure in his lovelorn madness. Perhaps there's even a hint of envy in our mourning – a morbid fascination with the totality of his devotion.

They saw the tragedy, the wreckage of a love-obsessed mind. But instead of pity, they donned his colors, a macabre parade waving the banner of lethal love. Their battle cry, "Dulce et decorum est pro amore mori."

It is sweet and fitting to die for love.

Ah, the chorus of the lovesick. A chilling testament to love's seductive power, even in its most destructive form. They'll sing of love's magic, how it bestows happiness and purpose – a truth that would surely dawn on me if only I could grasp this elusive bliss.

Perhaps.

But isn't this the same siren song sung by those who blindly follow demagogues? They too find solace in their obsession, a warped sense of purpose that crumbles when confronted with reality.

Do they not experience a twisted joy in their blinkered existence? Could we, perhaps, understand their fanaticism if we tasted their peculiar brand of happiness?

But surely, understanding doesn't equate to endorsement. We wouldn't trade clear sight for comforting delusion, would we?

Would we?

Yours truly, a very lonely idiot.