Creepy crawly

Sometimes, insecurity is a fun and curious thing that one can't help but lapse into when faced with unfamiliar situations...or boredom.

Today I noticed a girl in my class who was left-handed. Not a big deal, right? But all of a sudden I found myself far too aware of my own, common right-handedness and its frightening unoriginality. I kept thinking, how much more interesting would I be, if only I wrote with my left hand! Imagine the sort of subconscious arousal that would stir among the common observer! If I were as extraordinary as this left-handed girl, I could charm anyone I met! Imagine: without a thought, I would tuck a stray hair behind my ear (with my left hand, of course), playfully gesturing to all spectators (on my left side, of course), look, look at my left ear! I would radiate among a crowd of un-noteworthy right-handed folk, all too generous with their rash displays of right-ears! I would conquer the world!

I also noticed that she had a large mole on her left shoulder, which to the common eye may seem boring, revolting, even, but I found myself envious of this seemingly trivial characteristic that seemed to have voluntarily sprouted, just for the sake of pairing with her distinctive left-handedness. Now, I have plenty of unsymmetrical details and flaws, but none of which had I found as charming as the mole on that girl's left shoulder! Why can't I have a mole, positioned right above my shoulder blade, so as to say, "Hello, aren't you intrigued?"

I found myself rotating through a cycle of jealousy/anger/insecurity/boredom for an hour and a half, enraged about all things wrong with my body, furious that they would never be adorable/mysterious "quirks"!

Then, just when I felt I couldn't resist the urge to grab the pencil out of the left-handed girl's fist and throw it at the wall, I realized the stark contrast between my café-con-leche skin tone and the strikingly pale areas near my knuckles where my rings used to be.

leitmotivs

Some things only come to rest on the sides of my skull at midnight.

I have strange dual tendencies to assert self-sufficiency while also making obvious invitations to tend to everything within me that is too ugly or weak for my own introspection to acknowledge — all a rash attempt at self-preservation, at building defenses with transparent bricks to cover all bases — both protecting my heart and letting love be seen if it can't help itself.

I find myself making absurd comments, ridiculous pleas for attention that I immediately regret, instantly wishing to withdraw for fear of being "that girl", wishing I were Landon's Jaimie, wishing I were quieter, wishing I were shyer than I am, wishing I were less "loud" and "out there" and instead more "adorable," "steadier" — but I can see that my strained desires to be what I am not do not come from any real "quality standard" out there, but from a history of distorted truths about romance, about what is truly captivating about being a woman. Maybe I was born loud, born to flit from heart to heart, hair flowing freely in the winds of adventure — and maybe someday, to someone, that will be more than enough.

It's hard to remember how Loved we are, sometimes.

One of infinite flaws... why, when man's natural inclination is to be unique, to feel original, do I cling so desperately to boxes of my former selves? To familiar imaginary "self-characters" that deliver charm and wit through careless blunders? I am more careful than I think, anyway — or maybe less, I don't know. Introspection can be dangerous.

A new word I encountered in "Essays on Love" -

leitmotif (leit-mo-tif, also leit-mo-tiv)
noun. a recurrent theme throughout a musical or literary composition, associated with a particular person, idea, or situation.


The idea of a worldly romance is interesting in the way we cling onto these "leitmotivs" — these characters of relationships (e.g. the way both of us didn't know how to ask for the check in Spanish, that one time when we couldn't get the ice cubes out of the pitcher) - and the more leitmotivs two people acquire, the more their relationship is substantialized, is confirmed.

I think that's why I talk so much (too much) about things sometimes. One of infinite flaws. Maybe all of us do this — to remember, to realize, to make real a few of life's most extraordinary moments to ensure that at least some part of the "love" will exist outside of ourselves, just in case it ceases to exist between us. It's similar to the experience of seeing a movie alone, and refraining from discussing it with anyone afterward. The experience slips through your fingers, no matter how memorable the film; you forget funny lines, well-filmed scenes, moving scores — your experience lasts only for the brief moment in which it took place, and in the grand scheme of time, without reinforcement, without relaying your experience to others, without wishfully placing bits of your reality in others, the moment vanishes. All we are is dust, anyway.

strange

Strange how things happen sometimes — how people enter your lives at times all too perfect, all too "coincidental." (Oh hey God, is that you?)

You are just like him, in so many ways — that same quiet laugh, that same hesitance/confidence, ... the same eyes. A bit eerie. Thank goodness I caught myself.

I built these walls much higher than I could have imagined.
Maybe that's okay for now.

Cats and Dogs

Somewhere underneath the floorboard
I will sweep my garden

Underneath the cupboard
Lives a mouse
And he discovered there was nothing there

Nothin there to discover

Fallin from the sky
There are raindrops in my eyes
And my thoughts are diggin in the backyard
My roots have grown but I don't know where they are

quixote!

When I'm tired I don't have the energy to be anxious