If being in love is a crime, then I am innocent. What is love to a woman who merely writes a story for her characters to experience such romance except herself? Perhaps, you could say that I shall meet someone. But who cares about a man with no intelligence? An imbecile, to be precise. Beauty is nothing but fortune. We have the privilege to choose who we want, but I must tell you this, dear reader: do not dare to decide who is suitable for someone when you know nothing but their name.

To love a man is like taking care of a dried plant that refuses to live– wearying and vexing. Tell me, why are you still learning to love someone when you know it’s suffocating? I do not question the idea of love but what the love itself did to you. And I must say, if you let a man know your soul, he’ll ruin it. Everything about you is sacred, and what is sacred deserves privacy. I am not writing to prove something. I’m writing because people are pestering and this literary piece is dreadening.