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Love is a trip I don't believe in true love. At least that's what I've been trying to tell myself for years, mainly because I was sure that I'd never find it, and so in some strange perversion of self-preservation, I tried to tell myself that no one else would, either, because it simply didn't exist.

Sure, my favorite book was The Princess Bride, but that didn't mean that I expected my Wesley to come along someday, and especially not to turn out to be right under my nose all the time. I had managed to convince myself that true love was a fairy tale and that it didn't exist, and believe me, that's not an easy thing to do once you've decided that faeries, and dragons, and elves, and little green men form other planets, and parallel/alternate universes, and unicorns really do exist, if you only just know where to look.

It was really hard to convince myself that true love wasn't just another matter of knowing where to look, especially with the unicorns. Why did the unicorns make it any harder than anything else, you ask? What is a unicorn, but a creature who cannot be tamed or bridled or subdued by any means, but is captured, tied beyond all doubt, by a simple ribbon- when it's tied by a maiden's hand, because it bears the bond of love. What does he tell us but that simple truth: Love is all.

I never denied that truth, I couldn't, so I denied its application. I decided that if true love had existed it would have been all, but that it didn't. Basically, I rationalized, because nothing could hold that all encompassing place that true love would fill, had I admitted its existence, and I couldn't stand to admit that empty space was there, because what could make me think that that space would ever be filled in me. I told myself Prince Humperdinck was right, that "Not one couple in a century has that chance, not really, no matter what the storybooks say." And even if one couple in a century did get that chance, why should the thought even occur that that one couple would include me? Two people out of the myriad who are born and live and die in a thousand years were to be blessed with that great gift and I was supposed to think I had a chance? No.

I had decided it was better to go with the odds and tell myself there was no such thing. It was easier to keep myself in denial and to be happy with what I saw, than to admit that there was a greater happiness that I had basically no chance of ever achieving. To me a life of pretending and small happiness seemed better than one of reality and great emptiness. That was fine until I found my true love. Now I can no longer deny that it exists. But now I've found something worse than the sadness that comes with thinking you'll never find them. It's finding them, and knowing exactly where they are, when that place is far away from you. In a way it's a "what you don't know can't hurt you." As sad and empty as it may seem never having known the bliss that comes by being held by someone who loves you more than anything else, the quantified emptiness that is a hole in your soul the exact size of that love hurts more. There is no way to deny it, and it's impossible to ignore. You know exactly what you're missing, and it hurts like hell, but it's worth it. Love is a drug. It's more addictive and has a worse withdrawal than any other drug ever known to mankind. But the highs are better than anything you can ever imagine.