Society proclaims me to be of age. An adult, it seems, for four months.
And yet I know I'm quite the opposite, utterly inchoate of matters carnal and practical. I am a mere dilettante in the theories and interests that so permeate my academia. An absolute infant when it comes to dealing with the opposite sex.
I have never been kissed. In keeping at arm's length men–and yes, men, because those that surround me are of other predilections or preferences–I do not know if it is to protect me from the hurt that rejection would bring, or the standards I long for are nigh too ideal. For the longest time, I've labored and hid under the impression of a conservative upbringing. There is that, yes–but it is not as constricting as I would have others believe.
I cannot keep the friendships I've held so dear. What worse can it be with a supposed man I might spend my life with? You say, date, what harm can it do? I reply, much. I can love far too easily.
Society calls me an adult. At heart, I'm still that naive little girl.
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Saturday, September 8, 2007
A Strange Sorta Fairytale
It would be strange to think of myself as some sort of Jezebel, a temptress with scores of men at the crook of her finger. It would be bizarre picturing me as an angel-faced beauty, ludicrous to think men flirting for pleasure, or asking for my name or number, or even drawing me as their goddess.
It would be harder, still, to imagine myself in some sort of romance story, a protacted courtship over modern post--the eccentric yet "charming" girl, and the confident, intelligent gent toiling continents away, who haven't seen each other in four years.
It sounds like a recipe for a a fairy tale, which is alarming.
How much love can there be if the girl-woman is certain her otherwise Romeo is a Don Juan of international stripes, and she is no longer interested besides? There's not much chance if the poet doesn't even recognize his maybe-muse in their last face-to-face appearance.
No happily ever after here.
It would be harder, still, to imagine myself in some sort of romance story, a protacted courtship over modern post--the eccentric yet "charming" girl, and the confident, intelligent gent toiling continents away, who haven't seen each other in four years.
It sounds like a recipe for a a fairy tale, which is alarming.
How much love can there be if the girl-woman is certain her otherwise Romeo is a Don Juan of international stripes, and she is no longer interested besides? There's not much chance if the poet doesn't even recognize his maybe-muse in their last face-to-face appearance.
No happily ever after here.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Easel
My parents surprised me with an easel the other day. It was gorgeous, carved narra, taller than my rickety bookstore one.
So I painted.
It's a lot easier to paint, to just let colors mix and stroke the canvass with hues, because then I don't have to think about anything.
Like how I'm still at odds with my closest group of friends, over my superficial changes.
And how I won't celebrate my birthday, for the first time, with my grandfather, and how no one will probably remember that it was OUR birthday, and not just mine.
Three more days. I hope the painting gets finished before then.
So I painted.
It's a lot easier to paint, to just let colors mix and stroke the canvass with hues, because then I don't have to think about anything.
Like how I'm still at odds with my closest group of friends, over my superficial changes.
And how I won't celebrate my birthday, for the first time, with my grandfather, and how no one will probably remember that it was OUR birthday, and not just mine.
Three more days. I hope the painting gets finished before then.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)