A character can only be so strong. It can carry the person through all that does not really matter. It can falsify a claim to destiny. It can dictate to never regret. It can pronounce suffering to be a lesson. It can even convince to keep breathing. But in the circumstance of a broken heart, it is as strong as the person who depends on it.	by Rena Kermasha
		She carries herself as far as her will takes her. Reaching for new goals as soon as old ones no longer challenge her. Day to day, the people she meets and befriends tell her of their envy. For her rigour. Her capacity. Her determination. Sometimes it feeds her ego. Most of the time, it angers her to be looked up to. You bring it onto yourself, she reminds herself, by fulfilling their expectations. Fail them, she orders herself. But that would be to fail herself. And herself she fails only when it is in the hands of another's will. The one who breaks her heart. The one who keeps breaking her heart. By his absence. By his presence. By the expectation of his presence. And the conclusion of his absence.
	She retreats in these disappointments, spoiling the day. Waiting for it to pass. The possibility. And soon she discovers the probability of the possibility leaned towards the unlikely. But nevertheless, when she makes the effort to read between the lines, it appears again. Submitted she becomes. Awaiting she always is. But patience is not the tone of her character. It is rather will. And in love there is no will. It is passive. It is someone else's will. Always someone else's will.
		It is not about destiny. It tempts one to regret. It is mostly suffering and never quite a lesson. It is suffocating. Love has nothing to do with character. Love is the death of character. Love is the death of strength. Love is the death of conviction. Love is the death of principle. Love is the death of feminism.