I have a friend whom recently confided in me his heart’s deepest troubles. It is a classic case of unrequited love. A classic tragedy of adolescence. The only exception to this commonplace tale is that he had once expressed his affection for her, which she didn’t take well and thus began a retreat from the friendship. And now, he despairs. Things, he lamented, are not as rosy as they used to be and there exists such a stark contrast between the present and past that he cannot help from feeling insulted by the vicissitudes of life. And as it is with all cases of unrequited love, the pursuant is persistent. He told me of his plans to mend the friendship and stitch up the yawning rift that time and again swallows his expectations, his dreams of the Elysian fields.
How it all reminded me of the quagmire in which I too had helplessly struggled. From vestiges of the past materialized the pain and I sank myself into it once more. And did I not feel a queer sense of satisfaction from tasting again the bitterness of unrequited love, as if despair, once encountered and acquainted with, becomes a sort of therapeutic drug.