She loves me; she loves me not—only doubt. It starts as a minor inconvenience in daily life, like a torn spinach leaf between the teeth. Someone may bring attention to that tiny misplaced substance in the mouth, and ever since, we have tried to eliminate it earnestly. Sometimes the uncertainty becomes a sore point in the physiology of the mind, similar to an ingrown toenail in a human body. When we let the doubt continue and refuse for a prolonged period to examine it with an honest inquiry, it invalidates the truth. Like red, hot coal, it simmers just beneath our awareness. By the time we unearth its permanence, it has stripped us of logic and left a barren land devoid of any conviction.