During a very late and sleepless night in London, here I am. Not quite looking like myself, I am watching my new dance shoes and embracing the idea that an era of my heart is over.

There are no questions about past actions or reactions in the night;

I am just letting myself free from a broken path of my heart. Did I like you only to step away from my own complexity? Did we like each other just because we needed to feel?

Nowadays it seems that the search for love in our hearts conquers every field of our lives, even our conscience. Its core ends up creating “feelings” towards someone randomly picked by a beat of our heart to sustain a social emotional balance.

However at the end of the day, is it fair to oneself? Is it fair to the other? Maybe, not always, yet sometimes? Would you risk it?

If you do risk it, the other becomes the ordinary who falls behind, and mistaking “the ones,” you feel forward in time – too much emotional experience in too little time.

Loneliness and the need of feeling something other than your own chemistry in your nature sometimes takes “meanings” created from mundane things a little bit over the limits, like wearing very tight shoes because they seem pretty in that very moment in that light setting. Or wishing that fall would not swipe away red cherry blossoms of Versailles' Garden.

With ordinary things such as sudden and unforeseen heartbeats, you can try to have red cloves around blond leaves of fall. Sometimes you get lucky and find a garden full of beautiful flowers.

However, sometimes, and most of the time, you just find the scent of earth: alive and fertile. Two people who have the potential for sharing an emotion deeply and fully, but maybe the time, maybe the place or maybe the people are just not right. In the end, the garden turns out to be just plain soil with lots of touches of your imagination.

So, it is not fair and also not even close to reality to expect so much from ordinary things. It is not fair to be this vulnerable towards the temptation of feeling a new thrill, or more than that, to be this vulnerable towards love. It is not fair to oneself, spending so much time to break your boundaries. It is not fair if, after so long, when you look at the mirror you find your eyes fading away trying to escape even from his name. Isn't all this too much trouble for “created realities,” put-on faces of strangers to make oneself believe that we are understood?

In a very dark cab on a very late night in London, crossing Clock Tower, time pukes its authority on my face! As raindrops build a chilly palace over Big Ben, my shiny new dance shoes are telling me how my heart never belonged to that person. Furthermore they mumble that the whole thing had no further effect on me other than seeing a fine drawing on a street and it was only me and my wishes that made a tiny flame look like a giant fire. At the end, am I guilty of made-up feelings? No.

Don't we wish for our dreams to turn into reality? Love at first sight, understanding, simplicity and protection, smiles and giggles running through our blood stream.

Yet, do we notice that most of the time we are the source of our own disappointment? We create more than what we wish for and put the responsibility of acknowledgment on ordinary people.

So at the end, there is always too much for unspoken words and too much for ordinary things. And maybe, as Jean-Paul Sartre said, “Things are entirely what they appear to be- and behind them… there is nothing.”