If a stranger were to explore my room, they'd find old love letters stashed between The Sun Also Rises and Breakfast at Tiffany's on my bookshelf. The correlation between young love and the contents of the literature were unintended and yet undeniable.
For me, young love was stealing street signs, and sneaking out. It was the love of thrill, of newness and discovery. There was a significant lack of this concept of consequence. We did what we felt like doing, and it was innocence because we never took the time to think otherwise.
I never considered my youthful emotions towards this stranger as love. My idea of love is corrupted and when I use the term it is only for lack of one more suitable. Real love, the kind that art thrives from, is only present for me in the case of my family. Real love is appreciation and embracement of another's flaws. It's contentment. It's simple and undemanding. Real love, involves pain and an excrutiating analysis of another's life. Their mistakes and stolen moments must be put on display and accepted.