Might I consider love a most spectacular mess?
I am keen to point out that I am a romantic, though not hopeless. I do at times consider the practicalities. I shield my mind from irrelevance, yet I am in lust for the possibilities, the passion that could be.
I write love; romantic love, dramatic love, gentle love. Might I yearn for this fictional tumble in my own life? Or have I forbidden myself from indulging in that self-serving immersion and emotional gluttony?
I despise waste. Maybe that has a bearing here? Oh, but it is so romantic! So lovely to be in love with the notion, just a notion of love!
May I bow out? I fear that I have not made a convincing argument for why I must embrace the ideals and practicalities of hunting down a good mate.
What a mess, I muse. What a fantastically lovely mess!