I couldn’t tell you what’s worse:
to love the wrong person passionately, only to be consumed by fire or have the flames die down;
or to wait in vain for the perfect partner and grow mouldy in the cold and damp.
Maybe one is to find joy in writing, even though the clichés and glaring flaws and ideas that just aren’t carried through end up doing a great disservice to humanity;
and the other is like staring at a blank page too afraid to make a mark or permanent statement by your hand (or worse, a mark that could be erased).
So, no, I can’t tell you which is worse, but I can tell you which option I’ve chosen and would not hesitate to choose again.