In each season of my life I grew and, for sake of comparison, looked backwards to my past actions, thoughts and reflections.

Without fail I would look back with some distain for my conduct.

Fickle creatures that we are, the raging passion of two years since is nothing more than just a memory.

It stirs no emotion in our hearts, but a sickly kind of fondness; like watching a small child toil away at their pretend play.

I have previously said that the heart loves whom it loves and I stand by that statement, but I want to the reader to understand the width and breadth of those words.

Our hearts may rage and burn with passion just as they please, but when we act upon those flames, that, that is when our character is determined.

One may feel the sharp pang of love or the menacing clouds of hate without acting upon them.

Yet, not to act upon them is to deny our nature.

Self-control, though lastly mentioned, is heavy armour.

This self-control, this passion concealed, is like wind blown onto a burning pile of kindling.

Too much will smite all fire and emotion.

Only the breath of one skilled in the art can create a fire that sustains and brings warmth and life to those around him.