Love, sick.

The Kiss, Gustav Klimt.

My head is stony, face scarlet, throat burning, eyes aching, muscles agitating, heart racing. My mind is out of function. I can't think and I can't work. I need to drink a lot of water, but don't feel like eating anything. These are either signs of being ill, or symptoms of being madly in love. 

Sadly I belong to the former. In such case I shall recover sooner or later, given adequate rest, water, vitamin C and fresh air; then hopefully my immune system will regain its power without the help of  any medication. 

But love, as far as I know, can't be cured with anything. And no one can be immune to love. It's in the winds that you breathe, in the tea that you drink, in the words that you read. You might already feel it in the veins that go to your heart, or find it in the nerves that make butterflies dance in your stomach. 

Painful as it is, a lot of us would rather die than being cured of the disease. Dying of love is better than living loveless. It's not that we have a choice. It's love that chooses us.