The problem is that I am searching for spontaneous combustion, the kind of instant burning up and irrevocable passion...emotions forged so deeply that it hurts as much as it feels good, simultaneously.

The problem is that despite the exterior  walls and unconfirmed emotional detachment issues, I think that deep down I want romance and to be swept off my feet.

The problem is that either the above does not exist or that I am not good enough to be a recipient of it.

The problem is perhaps that I am the problem - I am not too naive nor ignorant to have not assumed this. So I suppose I will just have to fall in love with literature

And fall in love with the beautiful
And fall in love with the ******
Did you notice how that was a Scott Fitzgerald reference
Probably not
And that defines the elusiveness of what I am looking for
And it illuminates the fact
That perhaps it does not exist at all
Or even more heartbreakingly
That it was not destined for me