Love is just a four-letter word

I'm bored with thinking about emotions. You tell your life in terms of the books you've read; I would tell my life in terms of the lovers I've loved. They haven't been many, they haven't been few, but somehow they have all been important in my process of figuring out who I am: I am not this, I am not that, I am not the other, I am not something else either.

This is something I learned my biology class in fifth grade and that has been in the back of my mind ever since: in the scientific method, even if your hypothesis proves wrong, you are getting closer to the truth, because you've narrowed the possibilities down. Now you know what thigs are NOT.

But I still feel it has been a stupid journey, where no matter how far I travel I'm always back in square one. Because in a realm of infinite possibilities, elimination won't get you anywhere.

Sometimes I wish I could separate myself from myself. I feel like an expert on sadness, on how relationships go bad, on why families work the way they do. Now I want to balance this stupid wisdom off with factual knowledge, and get out of the domestic sphere. I wish I knew how to start.