One of the not-so-weird things about love is how its perception and importance changes over time. At 17, I had almost given sensibility a firm kick in its shins and was willing to go anywhere in its pursuit. It was the most awesome of highs, with rationality and practicality not even featuring as a speck in the rearview mirror.
At twenty three and the world was a massively different place. Disbelief had taken the place of belief, only hit and runs delivered the much-needed highs. And my doorstep was about the only place I was willing to in the pursuit of love.
Now, at twenty six, a portrait of the protagonist as a lover is still not a pretty picture. Passion is what I lack in a plenty, while I constantly overdose on rationalism and practicality. Not that I believe it to be something of a tragedy or a disaster, but it is something of a major deviation from the norm - difficult to understand and even more difficult to explain to others.