There's this girl...
...who really knocks me off my feet.
See, I've spent all morning at work (all morning - and being paid for it) reading the back-story of this girl.
She is incredible. She is so free-form, she's so intense in her passion for whatever draws her passion. The idea of trying to confine the incredible fucking glow that this girl puts off when I look at her through the eye in my mind into your typical, over-used to the point of meaningless adjectives is repulsive to me. Watching her path wind, and bend, and curve, and go up and down through this journal, what I know to fill in the cracks between it, and what I've seen since then of who she's become... it's breath-taking.
And it fills me with this sense of... dread. Not of her, and not fear of being involved with her, and not fear of moving too fast with her.
By comparison, I feel so mundane. So ordinary. I feel like I am just.. human, to her ethereal. I am sharp corners and geometric shapes to her organic, her dynamic, her... romance and passion. It is by no fault of her own, she is nothing but adoring, caring, compassionate, loving. She has never made me feel less than, never made me feel like she wanted me to be anyone but who I am.
But god, I feel unworthy. Am I really a deserving chapter to that story? I feel like my affections are like a child's chalk drawing laid upon some intricate work of art. Do I deserve to be a character in the remainder of that book?
I hesitate to even write this... I don't want to scare her. Or anyone else. And these are fears I can deal with, as I have in the past - my ego and my self-confidence are sometimes so viciously out of whack.
I guess, perhaps, one's own story always seem so mundane in comparison to that of others - but still there is that fear.
It will take time, probably. It will take being with her, and being near her warmth, to melt it.
I can't wait.
See, I've spent all morning at work (all morning - and being paid for it) reading the back-story of this girl.
She is incredible. She is so free-form, she's so intense in her passion for whatever draws her passion. The idea of trying to confine the incredible fucking glow that this girl puts off when I look at her through the eye in my mind into your typical, over-used to the point of meaningless adjectives is repulsive to me. Watching her path wind, and bend, and curve, and go up and down through this journal, what I know to fill in the cracks between it, and what I've seen since then of who she's become... it's breath-taking.
And it fills me with this sense of... dread. Not of her, and not fear of being involved with her, and not fear of moving too fast with her.
By comparison, I feel so mundane. So ordinary. I feel like I am just.. human, to her ethereal. I am sharp corners and geometric shapes to her organic, her dynamic, her... romance and passion. It is by no fault of her own, she is nothing but adoring, caring, compassionate, loving. She has never made me feel less than, never made me feel like she wanted me to be anyone but who I am.
But god, I feel unworthy. Am I really a deserving chapter to that story? I feel like my affections are like a child's chalk drawing laid upon some intricate work of art. Do I deserve to be a character in the remainder of that book?
I hesitate to even write this... I don't want to scare her. Or anyone else. And these are fears I can deal with, as I have in the past - my ego and my self-confidence are sometimes so viciously out of whack.
I guess, perhaps, one's own story always seem so mundane in comparison to that of others - but still there is that fear.
It will take time, probably. It will take being with her, and being near her warmth, to melt it.
I can't wait.