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When the heart yearns, shall it not, in attempt, try to complete itself, by initializing, in word, the interest of itself in the other? But, in assumption of its timidness the heart chooses to show its true feelings to a wooded sheet by a leaded stick as personalism. So to itself it stays and only by written word or thought does the heart find itself in brief happiness until, once again, the truth shows itself and the heart remains unfulfilled of its want, its need, to be with the one, thees desired body, beholding the personality for which it longs. And when apart from the though of them shattered is the heart, and it remains, and waits..., waits... But still the one longed for seems to not notice the hurt they cause for they know not of the feelings which the other holds for them deep inside. So deep, and its because to let it surface would be possibly like a submarine, for if it rises it can be seen, and thus attacked. So, in essence, to be or not to be becomes, to tell or forever lay peaceful in the thought that thee has not been subject to rejection but never took the chance. So the battle lays within, for when apart from that person the mind says, \"I\'m going to speak, and let, to the other, my true feelings be known.\" But when in the presence of that person the heart tears away all that occurs to the mind and again, returns to itself, shattered, lonely. But the mind, as if to contradict any heartly action, returns to its prior state of thought, saying, \"Next time..., next time...\" And so, history repeats itself, working almost as if water, in a never ending cycle, maybe eternally on the conscience of the one who chose to, forever lay peaceful in the thought that thee has not been subject to rejection, but never took the chance.