Men are confusing. The whole lot of them. Just as you’ve decided to not like one – and have made every effort to move on – he will do something, say something, reveal something about himself that will cause the frosty disposition you've grown comfortable building, to thaw for him again.
The man I had liked, then decided I mustn’t, and from whom I have kept a very professional distance, let loose a side of himself I hadn’t had the opportunity to see until this week. As we talked, his words were warm and comforting like summer rain. We spoke of things outside of our respective jobs: shared interests in photography, writing and other arts, cooking, stargazing, and moon-chasing. He looked at me and with all sincerity, told me to run, to seek out and hone my gifts. He was excited for me. He made me want to be excited again.
He told me how much he admired my imagination, the ability I had to step outside my surroundings, and to lose myself in thought or stories. And as much as I do enjoy this particular quirk, I wanted to tell him how dangerous it was for me. To always walk the fine line between reality and dream, of truth and imagination, of the tangible and the ephemeral, is to allow for vulnerability, hesitation, disappointment and a constant, nearly insatiable yearning.
It’s strange. As much as I enjoy these feelings -- the flirting and smiles, the shared laughter and occasional brushes -- I am still so hesitant, still so fearful. I realize all the more in my melancholic self-consciousness, that I am still so very naïve when it comes to these sorts of pursuits of the heart.
I am in danger of falling before any foundation is set. Every word uttered, every glance and grin, every hearty laugh, will have me undone soon enough.
It's all fluff for the foolish.
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