It’s terrible really, to recount another’s declaration of love to you as something petty. But what is one to do, though, when after the third meeting, one is confronted with words like ‘vibration’s and ‘something special’? It is enough to say it was nice. All too sudden, all too soon. That single outburst of emotion. So we seem to attract old lonely wandering men.
Perhaps I am just getting insensitive, meeting people, talking seems to be done almost carelessly; one shifts to one person/thing/day/place after another without any consequences. Talking to that famous vlogger, ML, for example, about Faisal Tehrani, literature, -isms, and whatever that happens to fancy him at the moment, only to be interrupted by bubbly girls wanting to take pictures with him, only to be asked to pose in a certain way. Peace. I shall give you peace. His Facebook statuses seem to be ripe with word-plays and sarcasm, which I find slightly amusing.
Back to our story of unrequited love, anyway. It’s a disappointment really, when what you thought could just be an exchange of thoughts and ideas is tainted by feelings. The two cannot coalesce. Here the opposition of memory occur. Here I think, am I to where you channel the sum of your experience, but to him here is a great listener, who seems to understand me. The same gaze, look, gesture, speech can be interpreted differently by two people, and so it is a tragedy to when one begins to fall in love while the other is bored. It feels like a Milan Kundera novel.
I can be a terrible person when I write. I wish to be terrific instead.
Cycling with the girls, yesterday. Picnic. The joy of lying and rolling in the grass doing nothing but eat, talk and laugh. I dip my feet in the water and shudder. Why would Virginia Woolf drown herself in a river? I wouldn’t stand a minute.
perkaraperkara 