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"The only thing we never get enough of is love; and the only thing we never give enough of is love."
— Henry Miller.
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Frustration
Anger
His anger simmered beneath the surface, bubbling and boiling like a raging tempest within his chest.
With each forceful punch he delivered to the punching bag, he sought solace in the physical release, attempting to expel the mounting frustration and deep-rooted trauma that had taken residence within him.
"Stupid," he muttered, his voice strained and hoarse, as if the word itself held the weight of his anguish.
The repetition of the word echoed in the empty room, serving as a mantra that both acknowledged and belittled his own emotions.
"Stupid," he repeated once more, the word escaping his lips like a bitter confession.
In the midst of his relentless assault on the punching bag, a part of him recognized the irrationality of his actions, feeling as though he were regressing into a state of childishness.
Yet, despite his awareness, he found himself unable to halt the torrent of emotions coursing through him.
He had to convince himself, though.
He had to convince himself that this wasn't love.
That the consuming fire within him was merely an illusion, a figment of his imagination.
Love was supposed to bring happiness, not this maddening blend of fury, confusion, and longing.
But as his fists collided with the sturdy surface of the punching bag, he couldn't help but question the validity of his own denial.
For deep down, he knew that love, in all its intricate facets, wasn't always a gentle caress or a tender embrace.
It could be an unruly storm, lashing out in fits of anger and desperation.
It could be a battle within oneself, a struggle to reconcile conflicting emotions.
And so, he continued to vent his frustrations on the punching bag, seeking solace in the physicality of his actions.
In each strike, he sought to convince himself that his heart remained untouched, that he was merely a victim of circumstance and not a slave to the intoxicating allure of love.
A single tear slipped out of his eyes, glistening with a mixture of anguish and frustration.
Getting in front of the mirror, he punched it with each forceful punch against the mirror's cold surface, his pain-filled memories flashed rapidly through his mind, tormenting him relentlessly.
The shards of glass shattered, mirroring the broken fragments of his own shattered soul.
Yet, he couldn't stop.
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