Unhappiness dwells in the house where realization abides behind dusty curtains. Wait, and discoveries are made, through eternal mental housekeeping. Hold off your analyzation, and stave off unhappiness.
In the heart where foolish optimism and quiet unmentioned love were once found, there is, after a time, doubt and pain, eventually an invisible and externally silent drill, an unforgotten hole.
It is pragmatic to keep to yourself when faced with unfriendly powers or fortune, or a force of nature: gossip, stupidity, frailty, embarrassment, pride, good intentions, bad intentions. When your life is ruined for a day, it cannot infect past yourself. You can count yourself a philanthropist and spend your love on something you can't rationalize into a rejecting thing.
Cycles repeat. After a time, sensitivity diminishes, and foolishness begins again. It takes a while to become stupid enough to imagine oneself in love, and another while to extract oneself, finger by finger, from the dull grasp of a smothering, useless affection.
Pessimism wants such lovers back. It chastises when foolish expenditures of emotion are made, overused; it makes early mornings dreary and full of muttering curses--and literature. It brings people down to their knees to tell them the secret: they will always end up there again. The gravity of pessimism is enough to sink any affection foolish enough to stick too close to the Earth--or to travel too far.