True love is akin to the old rickety house on the corner that all the kids assume to be haunted. Even though they themselves have never been in, they have heard stories of the perils others have faced, of a friend's cousin who entered and has never been heard of again. And yet, even though it has never been proven to them, they will believe with undeniable perseverance that that house is in fact cursed, mostly because the alternative is simply much too boring to even consider. What fun would the neighborhood be if there was no old house for which one can dare onefs friends to commit heroic acts of bravery by running by, or knocking on, or, God help us, spend the night in? What fun would there be in life if what we see was what we got?
True love is an irrational presumption made by the collective delusion of mankind, concocted by us not out of reason and logic but out of hope that we, too, may some day fall smitten to its spell. Even though we hear on an almost daily basis of all the wonders and joys of falling in Love, real Love, not just some idiotic hormonal urge to procreate, I have not personally ever dealt with this emotion first hand, nor, quite frankly, do I know of anyone who has ever grappled with this concept either. Oh, sure, we all know people who seem to fall head-over-heels one day, but they fall merely for the idea of a character, and quickly fall right back out when they realize that their target is not nearly the Adonis or Aphrodite they imagined. Never have I met someone willing to submit themselves fully to the undeniable passions that we all assume to be commonplace when Cupid finds his mark.