You are in your twenties. You are a woman. You are single. You are crossroads and you are slightly confused with just one thing: love. What I mean is that you have a plain uneventful life with order and balance and all of a sudden you are unexpectedly drawn into a whirlpool of emotions, the moment you develop an interest in a guy.
Irrespective of whatever interesting adventures you are in the middle of or what work you are doing, this one person becomes the pivot of all your thoughts, so much that you are hardly able to find your balance in life and it becomes so obvious to the people around you that you are interested in someone. If it happens, not once but twice then you are done for and add to this, the fact that you are shy and find it difficult to communicate what you feel to the person concerned.
So the end result is a journal full of choked up tears of absence, kisses of fettered affection and unspoken love. Some of the agony is because of shyness but mostly because the person whom you attract is also of the same kind: shy, proud and difficult to understand. So, these definitions are a way of getting over what I know might be the best possible love in the world, of a magical chemically combustible kind, but mostly existing in the field of imagination and fantasy.
So, this female Quixote who reads too much, loves too much, thinks too much and writes too much. She has no windmills to fight for but her own personal fears and inadequacies. Rather than confiding in intimate friends or confessing your love to the person concerned, what you do is to scribble some loving thoughts in a journal on a daily basis, so much that over time you discover that the person you love has turned into a myth.
Then years later, you stand face to face with the person who provoked all this writing for years and all you want to do is laugh out loud because you feel like a teenager once again. Not just that you have made a myth out of the object of your obsession.