When I see something (or even someone) that's extraordinarily beautiful, my chest clenches. I fall in love, nearly instantly. And it makes me want to, with no hyperbole or exaggeration, want to die.
Because instinct works out that escaping the dusty tethers of this constrained and (relatively) unremarkable existing will fade into a being that's complete. And free from the inhibited appreciation that's governed by a sulking boy's perpetual temper, sour mood, and irrational pride.
But the overwhelming and swollen heart usually subsides into a darkened undertone of contrition that seeps from my bones. Because I know as much I fall in love with a sunrise, or a dark eyed girl, I don't deserve those things. And my brain furiously pencils out the parabola of things I deserve to have, and my shoe laces feel to big for my feet, and I stumble and graze an existential chin.