Wet sand..
I don't know what to think of this. A single part of me, naturally, thinks I'm just being silly; another part of myself cannot help but be involved -- and desire to be involved. Yes, this is about the fellow I talked about in my last entry. Oliver. (Can I just be a tad honest for a moment and say that I genuinely have a miniscule penchant for saying his name? It seems to roll pleasantly off the tongue. I have been contemplating on whether to name one of my fictional characters by that name, because I really do think it's a very nice name.) Perhaps I shouldn't even be writing this... Why am I sitting here writing this? The purpose, for me, has been momentarily lost. Cut adrfit on an ocean of constantly ricocheting thought and inward motion. Though, not for very long. Maybe I'm sitting here writing this because that's what my "emotions" are driving me to do. Or, maybe I'm just forcing this upon myself. See, I think that may be the thing -- or, rather, a few of them. I'm not very certain if:
-- The way I feel toward meeting Oliver is a momentary lapse of emotions, and I'm just enjoying it vastly.
-- I'm just stubbornly holding onto this -- basically, forcing it -- because I've never really liked somebody in this way before.
-- I'm doubting him/myself because I'm not sure whether this is "serious" or not.
-- I'm second-guessing Oliver's feelings toward me; OR, second-guessing my actual feelings toward him.
When I review the small list of those possibilities alone, my eyes land right on the third possiblity. You know what? Part of a conversation he and I had not too long ago is coming back to me again. Just now, I'm realizing that maybe I'm thinking too much about this, in particular. Or, am I? And so the circle continues. Sigh. The seriousness of it all (or not) might just play an intricate part in this, though. It's hard to know... I just somewhat wish I did, because I find myself feeling quite stupid at times (no offense meant towards Oliver) for wondering about him so much. I mean, this very weekend, I went on an impromptu roadtrip to visit my grandmother, and I'd been planning on talking to Oliver that weekend since we hadn't been able to all the previous week. My grandmother isn't doing very well at all, I'd say -- and yet, at first, when my mother told me of our urgent trip that would take me out of town for a few days, I could only be disappointed about how I wouldn't able to see Oliver. And I felt very badly about that, because I knew that wasn't extremely sympathetic of me. That was, mind you, at first. The feelings toward my grandmother have been sorted out in their own way... I do love her dearly, the wonderful woman.
I guess I'm questioning much of this right now because I've had critical thoughts about what's going on. Thoughts that have kept me awake during certain nights. I despise to sound "pathetic" about this, also, when this could all be not very serious in the end. Still. I feel like I have this inspiring ability to really -- I don't know if I want to use a specific word... Not give myself to him, necessarily, but to really be there for him. I honestly don't want it to not be serious. Ah, how desire seems to carry us upon the crests of most beautifully austere waves. Am I simply a fool, to bite onto the light bait of hope?
-- The way I feel toward meeting Oliver is a momentary lapse of emotions, and I'm just enjoying it vastly.
-- I'm just stubbornly holding onto this -- basically, forcing it -- because I've never really liked somebody in this way before.
-- I'm doubting him/myself because I'm not sure whether this is "serious" or not.
-- I'm second-guessing Oliver's feelings toward me; OR, second-guessing my actual feelings toward him.
When I review the small list of those possibilities alone, my eyes land right on the third possiblity. You know what? Part of a conversation he and I had not too long ago is coming back to me again. Just now, I'm realizing that maybe I'm thinking too much about this, in particular. Or, am I? And so the circle continues. Sigh. The seriousness of it all (or not) might just play an intricate part in this, though. It's hard to know... I just somewhat wish I did, because I find myself feeling quite stupid at times (no offense meant towards Oliver) for wondering about him so much. I mean, this very weekend, I went on an impromptu roadtrip to visit my grandmother, and I'd been planning on talking to Oliver that weekend since we hadn't been able to all the previous week. My grandmother isn't doing very well at all, I'd say -- and yet, at first, when my mother told me of our urgent trip that would take me out of town for a few days, I could only be disappointed about how I wouldn't able to see Oliver. And I felt very badly about that, because I knew that wasn't extremely sympathetic of me. That was, mind you, at first. The feelings toward my grandmother have been sorted out in their own way... I do love her dearly, the wonderful woman.
I guess I'm questioning much of this right now because I've had critical thoughts about what's going on. Thoughts that have kept me awake during certain nights. I despise to sound "pathetic" about this, also, when this could all be not very serious in the end. Still. I feel like I have this inspiring ability to really -- I don't know if I want to use a specific word... Not give myself to him, necessarily, but to really be there for him. I honestly don't want it to not be serious. Ah, how desire seems to carry us upon the crests of most beautifully austere waves. Am I simply a fool, to bite onto the light bait of hope?