I saw "Madame Butterfly" on Thursday night with my music class… The next day, a friend of mine who had been there blamed Pinkerton to me. I assured her that such a man would get his hell (adding that I’d gotten mine), but asserted that love was a very flawed foundation, and Butterfly was the one who had built her high tower on it.
Love is a merciless opponent. The hapless soldier stepping unguarded onto the field can blame and condemn the enemy bowmen all he wants, but his rightness won’t keep him from getting shot through the heart.
Love is a heedless, irrevocable force. Tumbling over a ledge, the deserving and the innocent alike will be pulped at the bottom of the fall.
Love is a senseless idol unswayed by pity, which at last rescues none of its faithful worshippers or servants.
……I have been one of them.
How ugly this scar feels on my heart. Its deformed overgrowth still spells out the words once carved beneath it…
…"I miss her"….
…Such an unwanted sentiment.