So you understand less as the pages turn.

Like the eerie presence of erstwhile emotions, whose mere existence is often debatable, the occupancy of love, lust and the likes are questionable. At least in her head. She sifts through men, expecting the undelivered, losing herself in the beguiles of put up emotions. Ah, what a child! With her body giving away her daunt sexual desires which induces rage like passion even in the strong-hearted, in her heart, she was a child evaluating love. But love is such an idiosyncratic emotion. It strikes, least expectantly. For her, apparently, her body and heart were two different spheres. Could she love someone with whom she shared her body? Well, she could. Touch induces love. In the sauntering kisses gleaming through strange awakenings of lust, love is borne, and nurtured. The more natural the coming together of two bodies, separate in mind and soul, the more natural is the love induced. It leaves the child in her bewildered, and dazed. What were she to do of the growing fondness and the temporary moments of hurtful separation. Oh, what can we do about a weak-heart? And love, once borne stays. Love works that way, and everything else works around it. Even forced separation hurts the deepest pangs of love inside. Love is a betraying emotions. It hurts, and gets wounded, and yet, it chooses to stay. Oh, what do we do about love? And as she felt the stubborn emotion deep in her body, the emotion with no equaling synonyms, the emotion that could be expressed by the word, just, she sifted through life, like a baffled infant, battling infatuation, understanding the amour, and letting her body go.