Does Time Change the Heart?

There once was a time where I told a man that I would not wait for him. At that time I had felt nothing for him but the light dash for a friendship. He yearned love, coaxed and cajoled me to be his pet. But I will not forget the truest answer I had ever given him. “No,” It meant I didn’t want a long-term stay with him. It was neither love nor infatuation. I was young, and am still.

Yet I think if the one that stirs butterflies in my stomach and makes me quake, would he tell me that I was too young, then I would respond, “I will wait.” It would be as true as the other statement. Except how long can a young woman’s heart last? I know neither time nor aging. All I know is hormones and brevity of crushing.

I have blinded myself, his actions tie to my interpretation, which steals my heart. At first glance I am the fan girl, faint and elated, next comes the inevitable doubt. For I do know I mask and dress up things, make them stick out more than just a simple unintended emotion.

If I was right and he did something for the notice, then I may as well have lost myself in a torrent of ardor. Could my lapsing of doubt be unnecessary? Yet I know not of his intentions, and I can guess his morals, but from the beginning I’d been off marker. As a youngster I vied for older men’s attention. I was a spy in the swimming pool, and them the enemy I tried to evade, but secretly wanted their attention.

And now I lust for more than my whirring, I desire his sensations, too. Now I am one with Hermia’s undying passion. If he were to think more of me beyond my studious dissimulation I would cry and shriek inside! All he does is glance around and place me beside squawking youths whilst I am uncontained in my perfect façade. I manipulate their chatter to involve myself, and in doing so he has checkmated what pretty silence I could have shown him. He provides himself with what I know not of. I am losing time. It’s the third quarter, and I’m just some girl in seventh period. Haha!

Oh, but it’s so much more than that. I am now questioning my stamina. I’d like to believe that it wouldn’t be the last of him I see. I daresay I’ve been in dreams where a fairytale is desirable, but with him that is impossible.

I can’t discern where my heart stops and my costume starts. He is a muse and I; I am the girl without a mirror. Can I figure out how to not look stupid like everyone else? No, I don’t provide a vortex of little girl emotions straight-out. I look away now, not hurt but trying to stop it-

To stop myself from him? I can’t tell. He’s given me the greatest gift, the wonder of the humanity of myself. In most cases they’re just crushes where my writing comes out adoringly. Here I am twisted and unorganized. Yielded with raw power, surging in the excitement of the heart. The thought of him makes me cold, full of senses surrounding and yet in that I find the others invisible in his thought.

Is this even how lovers go? He with his girlfriend, I don’t even point fun at or cross-dangerous grounds. I don’t collect information; I just hold it in to myself.

Not just that, I contemplate him. Or more so the idea of what could be (but I am near certain will never be) and trying to savor the knowledge that he grants rather than the trouble and anxiety I tell others I have. The reason for my anxiety is what someone else knows, but he probably won’t hear the whispers. I’m not a teacher’s pet, I’m just there to correct people’s names and try to write.

I’m not defenseless, but I’m definitely not guarded over my feelings. They come out too quickly, and like Anne Frank, I’ve found I’ve given too much. I don’t wish I’d never told them, because then I would have written more in this. It’s so apparent in these writings I’m tearing between realism and escapism, and in that the aspect of contradiction is pretty evident. I try to swerve away, and like a dancer in the midst of entertainment, I can fall on one leg, straining weight on it and recover lightly enough. In this I jump back from love to moral, and I hope my leg doesn’t break, my grip on the earth slipping until I’ve fallen to him and not by him.

He’ll notice it, of course. He’ll either deduce it, someone will tell, or in true vein coldness, my searing hope that he find this comes out. Half of me want so badly for him to read these, these momentary fixations on him and basics. These are faults of my own, in truth.

But in this hope I would fall. My grades would swoop down, and in other classes I am fallen. I don’t know why. I just can’t reach far enough to concentrate. I don’t think it is he, but if it is he I wish to forget him. I wish to forget those fast flickering shallow eyes, the blue in it a coral reef shamed, but in this perplexity others think him hideous, an old man.

Maybe that’s that what attraction does to you, it makes you see past what others see. It makes you wound yourself and blare the goods in a person so that you can’t wrong yourself. I know he has bad in him, though.

Sometimes I want to cry when I see comparisons in him and the previously mentioned man- the one that asked me to wait.

Thus he has to be bad.

I want to know happiness justified. If pain has to come before he does I don’t know. I am so lost in my endurance. What would this pain be? Would I wait till I was legal, and by then would I not have moved on? I feel so bitter in thinking as I did before. For I could so easily fall, and if I wish not to I would restrain myself. In that willpower I find it quite elusive in the real world. It’s not a book here; I’m not some strong woman without seduction and temptation, I have vices of my own and I’m purely selfish. Wishing I knew if this were more than infatuation, I know it won’t be. Otherwise I would not have lain dormant with my feelings. I would grab him and his attention and tell him. I would make it clear of my desire to know more.

But at the end of the day I’m tongue-twisted, and I’m shooed away in fear that this really is just the corrupt mind of a schoolgirl.

This tension is so unbearable. I think myself worried about far away appearances, but when he touches or when he comes close enough for my examination and his own, I believe all of it is desensitized. It’d be heinous to act like I am unaffected, because I am. His harsh outline makes me want to embrace it even more. I don’t see him striking anyone, and his figure looks so clumsy in the vibrant scenery of everyday encounters that I know I’m missing so much. He could possibly ram someone, and his grip may be stable, but in this awkward glare I don’t see him as heroic, he’s just so surreal.

Who birthed this creature that I have been seized in palsy for months? What was his life like before I met him? And finally, does it really matter?

I wouldn’t even have time to get so close. It’s a petty acquaintance I play right now. I am a cloth dolly, soft spoken and without a good word when it matters, and I’m so flexible that I no longer know my image. I wouldn’t portray such hesitation if I could get out of the block. Not that I’m always like that, because I’m not.

A good mentor of mine enhanced the revelation behind a female having two sides. For it is beyond a doubt clear in my case. I can adapt to being boisterous and infuriated, but I’m just as vulnerable as the next person, if not more. You can’t be yourself to just anyone, and I never have been. For I don’t quite know who I am. Some reflect on what I do, others on my writing, and little on my appearance. So if all I am is appearance to him, then what reflection is there to be given?

Now I have digressed from my original intention, and that is to consider what will happen to me. Since I know my fantasies fluctuate it means my “man” (hardly so, it’s sarcasm, he’s taken as previously mentioned and I am little in comparison to whoever) changes from day to day. Technically I could put my stay in one of four men, or four all at once. It will still hurt, but the pain will ease in the end. If not, I will be forced to say good-bye in courtesy and pleasantry and move on to another grade. I prefer the easing as stripping is oh-so-harshly done. Mostly I have no experience with stripping, because most dissipate in my mind, but then again, will time replay another fatal memory?

In the end it won’t matter whether I tell him “I will wait,” because my mind and time will tell for itself.

(Personally, I’m too modest in my mind to confess, and all I’ve got is this meaningless reflection. What a damnable position.)