It will be something, or nothing. Sunday mornings alone? I’m here. Maybe I don’t feel like writing something coherent tonight. Donald’s gone to bed. The song sweeps over my ears and around the room. It’s been…a night. We say that often to call attention to the fact that it might have been a period of time out of the ordinary, but tonight’s just been that, a night, like any other. Yeah. Feeling conversational? I am.
The apartment’s still something of a mess. The entertainment center is pending, coming on Monday, and we’re still coffee-table-less, something I really hope to remedy soon. In the meantime, my trunk is serving the purpose, filled with sweaters, which I more than needed this past week. How am I? A bit tired, frustrated with my car’s alternator, optimistic, and myself. The song’s over now. Maybe I should start another–but I prefer to type in silence anyway. I could never write a paper in school when there was any sort of music playing, not even classical. The bass waves from some fellow resident’s over-testosteroned stereo next door were even a distraction. I needed, and need, quiet. But I’ve learned to manage. Music tends to imbue the writing with a flavor sometimes. Most of the time, though, I have a song running through my head, affecting my mood, and that more than serves the purpose of accompaniment.
Romantic sentiments tonight? Poetry so heavy-laden with hidden meaning and symbolism you could wring out the metaphors? Not really. Do you ever get tired of the complexity and non-linearity of relationships sometimes? Especially when they overlap, and something you do or say affects a multitude of conceptions. That’s when I run, or drive, or spend time in the Word, or watch a movie that is far, far too sappy and completely bolsters feelings that I’m trying to evade. I just get…tired of it all. The constant rigamarole. I’m just ready for… Well, I know what I’m ready for.
I remember times when I was so self-conscious that I didn’t remember a word of conversation the other person spoke, just things that I said that I thought were the most inane collections of words imaginable. I still don’t have a good idea of what to do with my hands. I like having something in them, like my water glass at work, which I’m inseperable from, or a pen, or keys, or… It’s rare that my hands will be able to maintain their inactivity and just exist of their own accord. I’m bad that way.
I compare myself incessantly to others. It’s one of my worst habits. Absolutely involuntarily too, since it’s so ingrained in my personality for ages. Social ability is a big one. I don’t know why I do, honestly, since I’m a fully capable individually socially, albeit a bit naive and gullible. But I can laugh about that. I think most of it comes back to the habit quality of the trait.
This bandaid on my left index finger is making it difficult to type. I’ve hit several keys inadvertently a few times.
Why do I do this? When will it stop? Confession: I’m making posters at Design Services for the Burch Fellows Travel Scholarship (that’s not the confession). It’s an award given to rising seniors to travel to a location of their choice and study, basically. Quite a comprehensive package, from what I understand. There were five awardees last year that I’m making posters for, and they’ve sent us pictures they took of their trips, the places they visited, like Samoa, Kenya, Scotland, etc… I had almost finished them by Friday afternoon, but needed headshots for a couple of the posters for the upper left corner, where we have a small picture of the awardee and their name and hometown. I emailed our contact in the University about it, and he said to come by and pick up the headshots the students had provided; they would be with his receptionist. I grabbed the service parking pass and drove over to campus, found the appropriate building, and parked. I made my way upstairs and located the office. After a little bit of explaining, I got the pictures in an envelope and drove back down to Design Services. The only person whose pictures were in the envelope was a young woman who had traveled to Ireland and Scotland to experience the holy sites and shrines, and through that, to study how we as humans make connections with the land we live upon. The rest of her photography was absolutely beautiful, pictures of medieval crosses and mossy churches and such, but as I pulled her photographs out of the envelope, I was stunned. I’m fortunate Millicent wasn’t in the office at that point, since she would have commented on my lack of activity for a good five minutes or so. It was late in the day anyway, but still… This young woman was breathtaking. Not in a traditional sense, but in the…uniquely beautiful sense. I’ve always held that the happiest pairings result not when people are both perfect, but when both parties are closest to each others’ own ideal, and that differs significantly from person to person. I somehow managed to scan in the pictures and finish the poster, but goodness, that singular moment, and its details, were poised in my subconscious for the remainder of the day. I don’t think it will stop, or lessen at least until that day when she steps into my life, full-fledged, or God breathes on my heart with love for someone I already know, and probably a combination of both. Who knows. Conjectures are useless, but feelings are so overpowering on occasion. So much for leaving the romanticism out of this entry, but I haven’t written on the subject in a while, at least not in my public entries, so here it stands.
