Part Three of the Times in which Titles are Unneeded, or Untitled

I’ve never been all that especially fond of love stories, or romances. Not because I’m a deep-rooted and embittered cynical bastard who sneers at hope, love, and kittens (which I am, mind you), but because it’s not these themes that are something that these forms of art tend to explore and expound upon, elaborate the intricacies of or make any the better for the time. Kittens are so passé. You see, the way I see it, is that love is just what it is – love – and these stories, tales, plays don’t change anything about it. Also, they don’t reveal anything startling about it. For example: oh my freaking God above, love is a confusing, convoluted, emotional, tumultuous, strenuous, chaotic, lucid, maddening, frustrating, euphoric, pleasing, uplifting, and twisted sort of thing. This is truly an unexplored concept, never seen before in the annals of history, literature, theatre, and art.
I will concede that love-based dramas are entertaining. But, my problem with them is that they can’t be anything more than that. It’s certainly not a message which is vital to the world that must be promoted; love has never stopped being around. Because, you know, we’re here. There is no age of the past wherein love vanished, dried up, and was forgotten – no, there really wasn’t, don’t give me any lip about this statement. Love is what love is, and love is still where love has always been.
So, in other words, love is unchangeable, unbendable, and unending. Stories can be meant to be mere, trifling fun, frolicking about in the fields of lilacs and butterflies, but maybe the only thing I am trying to say with this is that these types of stories aren’t to my taste. Love isn’t profound. Love isn’t deep. Love isn’t thought-provoking. It is touching, it is heart-warming, and it is amusing, at times, and horrifying, at others. Love is emotion, not thought; as such, I don’t like spending time dwelling on it.
Think of it this way: dwelling on other emotions is pretty much universally accepted by the school of psychology as unhealthy. If you dwell on anger, you’ve got rage issues. If you dwell on despair, you’re depressed. If you dwell on death, you’re unsoundly morbid. If you dwell on destruction, you’re a psychopath (Somehow, the Endless has become synonymous with emotions, for a moment). If you dwell on hatred, you’re too bitter. On the flip-side, if you dwell on happiness, you’re overly idealistic. If you dwell on pleasure, you’re hedonistic. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera; so, it only follows that if you dwell on love, a certain quality of your mental well-being is somewhat askew. Do take notice as to how the results of being obsessed with the more positive emotions are states of being that are much more socially acceptable, but nonetheless flawed and faulty.
In conclusion: kittens.
Adios.