I went to hooters last night and there was this one waitress who was so exquisitely beautiful. She had long black curly hair, bangs, and the sort of eyes you want to get lost in. I realized that I need to better express my feelings, or have the bravery to do so.
I wrote this when I was twenty six, at the time there was a bonnie I thought the world of, I had hoped that I wouldn't have to tell her how I felt that somehow my intent would be able to be deciphered with no effort on my part. I think when first we meet I knew it must be true; I was stuck by the piercing blow of Eros' arrow. The lightness of breath the weightlessness of being, the immeasurable hope when a smile radiated form your lips. The sun never showed as bright as your person and I never had the courage to utter such things. I thought madness must have taken hold of me as I thought must this be love. the answer I will never know, I want to think that for a brief moment it was. How sad it must be to never know if it could be returned. Sometimes when I am weak I miss you, I think of your face adorned with freckles, and how the sun would hit the midnight colour of your hair. Only in weakness do I long for you, and wish for what might have been. But somewhere I feel our hearts beat as one What I have learned in the years since is that my ability for overwrought florid language has only increased (see other blog posts for proof) and that I still choose to not act on any of my feelings. I can remember looking at her, this lass I wrote about, and feeling with agonized certainty that I would never dare tell her the extent of my romantic aspirations. It has always seemed like the worst possible thing in the world would be exposing myself to some sort of hurt. In reality the worst thing that would happen is that she would have told me no thanks, but that sort of rejection has always felt world shattering to me. Rejection in general feels like confirmation that my life is a failure, and by extension that I am one. For the most part that is not the case, but it would explain why I am so reluctant to try new things or expose myself to any type of risk. This week I am taking a big risk, and that is the application process for graduate school. I am starting to believe that I can make it, but taking that risk and exposing myself to whatever happens is still daunting. I might be cutting it a little close, but I have my application essays written, I have my portfolio completed, my resume finished, and the only thing I have to do is assembly it for the various schools’ admissions departments websites.(Clarification- I still need to send out my transcripts and letters of recommendations)
There is no fundamental difference between applying for graduate school and trying to find a girlfriend; after all you are selling the best part of yourself to complete strangers. The difference is how a person can rationalize the potential for disappointment. With an application, you can blame the faceless nature of bureaucracy, or any other fluke or flight of fancy, because the process is so dehumanized that the rejection doesn’t hurt as much. When a person is told that they aren’t interesting enough for a relationship it hurts worse because of the human element. The only conclusion that can be drawn is that there is something wrong with them. That might not be the case, but rejection does funny things to a person. It can spiral to the bleakest depths of depression, and why, because someone essentially said no thanks. Rejection asks the questions, why does it matter. Do things matter out of a general sense of importance or do we as individuals make it matter in an attempt to make sense out of an arbitrary world.
Love, hope, failure, rejection, happiness, these are just empty words that we define and give importance to; so why should any of these things scare us so. Really they shouldn’t but after building up the great and terrible humbug for so long it’s hard to perceive its unimportance. I’ve been rejected, and maybe that is too harsh of a word, but I digress, in both life and school and while I get annoyed by having my professional aspirations disrupted I feel wounded by the personal upheaval. I can write terribly overwrought prose and try to give importance to something that with the passing of time no longer registers to me, and was more than likely hardly a blip to the other person; but I get overwhelmed by the mere thought of placing myself out in the preverbal “there”. The hooters girls, I know don’t give a flying fuck about the customers, they want to separate me and money by the use of their ample cleavage, something I am fine with; but they represent or are indicative of the sorts of things I run away from. Lord knows I enjoy cleavage, and all the other fun that goes along with a woman; yet what point does it serve to never express those feeling and see what happens.
Maybe that mysterious black haired woman had something to offer other than drink refills; it’s improbable, but living life like a Las Vegas casino is not a way to a successful happy life. Aversion to risk, in some attempt to hold on to the illusion of safety has lead to all this. Now I’m saying I want to spiral out of control in some booze filled Hunter S Thompson esque lost weekend, but I want to live a little. Little steps add up I suppose, but I am annoyed by the lack of progress.
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