There’s something interesting about the initial moments after someone has decided to like you. It seems as if that person cannot entertain any thought except how bathed in yellow light you are or how smooth your skin looks or how many teeth you have.
It is in those instance when I want to shout from the mountains the endless lists of flaws I, like anyone else, have, or perhaps even more. That image has been photoshopped and stamped and seamlessly ironed, seas away from the ugly muck that is reality. For me, it holds a certain type of expectation, to be well-mannered, kind, to speak softly and curtsy.
The eyes say it all, that look of enchantment and light that twists at my soul, and makes me want to wear a big coat, some protective layer between me and the rest of the world I’m supposed to be.
I often wonder what it feels like to like someone wholeheartedly (not that I haven’t experienced a fragment of that nerve). But to embrace the fullness of another person is so foreign and so frightening. There are always knots of doubt in my mind I can never loosen.
The same cannot be said about some things. Like experiences, like every single time I step out of my Art History class, when I see the whole world shift and the afternoon sun and wind invigorate me and I’m left with this immense awe of life and of seeing. If only I could cloak this feeling onto a person. Would I, then, be any wiser?
