I have discovered a heretofore untouched streak of sentimentality.

I've been feeling a little more wistful lately. I've spent hours skimming through novels with romantic subplots with restless energy, hunting down the elusive quixotic threads that my usually pragmatic nature skips over. I've bookmarked pages with amorous declarations, the spines of these books wearing thin with repeated folding out.

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.” - Neil Gaiman 

Everyone around me seems to be falling prey to this mysterious malady of courtship. I'm just wondering when my turn will be. Not because I need reassurance that I am flawless in someone's eyes, but because I want to be able to lean on someone for a while. To rest my bones against theirs in comfort and silence. To forget, to lose track of time, to heal from the hectic humdrum of everyday life.