Muse 11: Hot Like Fire

While the moments were dutifully reminisced through hours of replay in the dark cavern of her mind, she suddenly remembered that someone once said, "Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known." And somehow that was how she understood that love is nothing but a composite of feelings. Nothing of love is original. It is agony. It is joy. It has purity; it enforces evil. It multiplies while decreases. It is hot and cold. Easy and difficult. It is when you fly through the sky on wings made of wax, trying to reach the sun because it burns so beautifully. She whispered right before she fell asleep, "Love is sweet, sweet masochism. " No one has ever survived flight except those who don't return.