As if love really exist, something that is so soothing and absolute, as unconditional as anything. Like, the way our parents love us, is that what means unconditional. Is it only them, who have cared for us, like they never hurt us, like are we the ones who have never been there for them. Why it's always a child to be blamed, to be blasphemous. In gratifying, everything ever we got, our own sacrifices have always been unlisted.
It's disheartening too, to be disappointed from the hand, that hold you.