Love. What a dreadfully beautiful thing that each one of us have to encounter. The real definition of love still remains a mystery to me, and probably to the rest of the world. There are people who see love as a beautiful, imperfect thing that has no wrong. While there are others like myself who see it as an imperfect, ragged feeling that brings pleasure yet harm to yourself.

I remember the time when I was in love, one long summers eve ago. His name was Cameron, and to me he was perfect. I loved him with my heart. The same heart that I thought he cherished, broke into a million pieces, when I found him with Christie Walters pushed up against the wall. Her skirt hiked up to her waist as he pounded senselessly into her. The man I thought i loved, took my heart and ripped it out of my chest, leaving a gaping hole. My tears stained my face every night that I cried myself to sleep. The pain in my chest that rippled throughout my body as the memories replayed in my head.

After many weeks of crying and being depressed, I picked myself up. I hardened my heart to the rest, not letting anyone in. i masked my pain with a cold expression, and lifted my head high. I decided to never fall in love again for the fear of being permanently broken.

While some have beautiful memories of love, there are others with dark and painful memories of their first love. While some seek it, others try to avoid it, and the people that want it less, get it the most. The thought of love amuses me now, and it forever will. What a silly thing called love.