Of all the types of love is being in love the most terrible. Poets have in all times warned of it, describing it as a madness, a disease with appalling consequences for the victim. But it has not helped. People seek it stubbornly, like a self- murderer who stubbornly steering his steps towards the precipice. There are people who have come close to succumb to passion and still claim afterwards, when healthy regain their plasma in life, unrequited love is better than no love at all. But he who in the midst of an unhappy love know that hell-fire and gnashing of teeth are better than this.

But the happy love then? Is not it? Yes, but it has a ravenous appetite. Will it not get its daily dose of resignation, jealousy, revenge, regret, suspicion, humiliation, bewilderment, longing, loss of identity, it dies of starvation. What really keeps it alive is the assurance of the victim to be the one who loves the most. So Cruel is love, the strongest and most anticipated of all the passions, the person experiencing the richest in that, while may be suffering from a crippling feeling of inferiority.