For a while now, I have felt as though I am running out of love. This makes no sense, because I know that humans are not made like this; we do not produce love in finite quantities, to be allocated as we wish. So why this mechanical feeling, as though I can only muster so much care for any new interest? And it dawned on me today, as my dormant problem emerged again.

I am a normal human being. My love is infinite, and in constant production – but bypassing my resevoirs entirely and flooding into one separate entity, so that only the viscous traces remain for any unfortunate stroller, the next sorry source of confusion. I can analyse qualities all I like, make lists with adjectives, discuss light-heartedly as though the problem might dissolve, but the fact is: true love is exclusive.

So, however despairing the situation, it brings hope of another kind. Despite how I make myself feel, I am not drained, or cold, or lifeless. And despite the tremendous pain it causes me, I would not numb it – would not remove the pounding, relentless reminder of my own sorry humanity.