I want to meet somebody who has the cerebral fortitude to withstand my arguments about both the physical and the spiritual sides of every human story. Now that I'm quite in to what I'm doing (writing my book), somebody who can talk about fairy tales and freaking real life would really be helpful. I want a taxing and detailed conception of love and hate; a conception I can never claim my own. The dimensions of love and hate, or maybe love alone provided for us by children's books grow in wanting as in complicacy apropos with age. As Edgar Allan Poe would aptly put it 'what is complex is (often) mistaken for what is profound.' Is love nothing but entangles of hieroglyphics or such a profound discipline of human sentient existence that it has rendered itself far beyond what one might call piece of cake? Thus bringing love's anonymity a notch higher, escalating the unlikelihood of attaining what we have been longing for. Don Juan de Marco enthralled the world as the epitome of passion, most often than not equated with love. Passion - that marauding vanquisher of hearts that leaves everyone clinging for refuge from their murderers. This well reminds me of Monsieur Karenin's adulterous wife Anna, who divested her well esteemed place in society for a mad love with a warrior dressed like a dandy; much like Kris Aquino. Passion affirms the profundity of love as it involves as a matter of consequence the onset of disorientation and seeming departure from sanity. Khalil Gibran agrees with one of his discourses postulating that a day of mad love is the distance between a sane man and lunacy (just one day!). For although there are multifarious thoughts on passion, it remains to be the potent ingredient to the full and often cataclysmic realization of love. Once I ventured asking how different is gay love to that of women with men, or men with women. Further discourses lead me to refuse touching the polarity between homosexual and heterosexual love that has become popular consensus. I do not believe such difference exist, and giving due attention by way of argument would be conceding prima facie. But sometimes, I can't help it. Sexual orientation ideally is a none issue; and sex remains a subset to an all encompassing whole, which is love. It remains a fact though that love takes credence from the pristine forms of attraction, which in its entirety is a discipline of sexual orientation. Nevertheless, the emotional aftermath of attraction leading to love, manifested by irrationality, submission, surrender and sometimes deprecating servitude remain the same. Once indulging into falling in love was nothing but a source of teenage angst - a mere trifle. Romantic anguishes were nothing but mere diversions from the monotonic propensities of urban life. But now seem a different case. I want to fall in love and thus reaffirm society's need of my existence. It’s the need to be needed - the thirst destined to be unquenchable, or rather, the natural spring of my ultra-insecurity. Life seem worthless without experiencing the transfiguration of my fairy tale heroines. And as if adding injury to my already orphaned heart, love remains a mystery. I now retreat into consoling myself by thinking love is nothing but a product of scheming conspirators to severe the mishap of the gullible, all for a one hearty laugh. I'll be 22 this year, loveless and still convincing myself I am secured from the prey of ridicule and the pangs of love's anonymity. Cinderella's great granddaughter ended her soliloquy on the greatest love story of France with, "For although my great grandmother lived happily ever after with her prince, the point gentlemen is, they lived." I have a life, though I don't have love. Maybe that's the point of it all.