That is what is written. Biologically speaking, love is living a lie. In the rush of endorphinal activity, things are said and done, spurred on by primordial instinct. Then settling down to the mundaneness of routine, subsiding into the passing dust of the days, it becomes another shabby story of human coexistence. Nayantara Sahgal's sighs dying on a joyless marital bed or Di and Dodi's ghastly end in a Paris tunnel.
Love is the darkest of fairy tales.
It is like an enchanted castle beguiling the weary traveler to enter. Surrounded by the moat of customs and rules, once the drawbridge of emotion shuts behind him, the moss on the walls, the geckoes slithering out of the cracks and the bats in the attic become visible in the light of the same moon of enchantment. The princess shows her warts and varicose veins, she is prone to stratagem, deceit and greed to keep the dusty knight to herself - or to offload him, as the case may be. That is why love is a legend only in death and tragedy. Those who died happily ever after, live forever.