What is this feeling? My heart is confused. It feels like something I should be trying to fight off. I can't really see where it could be more than a distraction from those things that should have my attention right now. But it feels good to think about it. It's like the dull ache of an irritated gum or injured skin; pressing into it is painful but there is some strange satisfaction that results.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

William Shakespeare