I guess we're all more in love with the idea of being in love than with the actual object of our affections. Its the euphoria we chase - like we do with alcohol, cigarettes, religion, rituals, fragrances ... among other things. We're just so much in need of external stimuli to make life worth living. At 35 and married with kids one would hope for a certain quiet sense of well being and a yardstick by which to live out the rest. But the problem with being self analytical is that you usually find what you would rather not. Like arriving at the said age and discovering restlessness. Also a sort of yearning associated with a long forgotten (buried deep?) time. Wanting to redefine what you're getting in the name of love - wishing it was a little more doomed and a little less friendly. Ah well.
Good thing is that the pain has a cure - there is in me the blessed faculty to be an observer ... of my own emotions and stream of consciousness. And of course there are books. Let me go be a drama queen between the pages of one of those.