At best, this week can be defined as an alteration of my romantic fantasies. This has been brought to my attention in ways most unsuited for my emotions' rest. Symptoms include, but are not limited to, low self-esteem, dazing off, and a feeling of general worthlessness. One might inquire what brings a shiny, happy person with a heart the size of a dinner plate to teeter-totter on the fulcrum of the subject that is love. Well, it is not the work of a gentleman that leaves my heart uneasy, but that of an unreasonably simple boy.
I am convinced, under some restrictions, that he does not yet know what it is to stumble straight into love. Who am I to blame him? I know little more than he does. Is it perhaps my own idiocy that has led me to believe I have fallen from heaven into the arms of a savior? To expect not only my broken wings to be tenderly loved, but the parts of me that are fully in tact as well is almost selfish.
My hands are too small for his and my thoughts, while bright, don't offer much stimulation by the time they fall from my mouth. The words are a cascading waterfall of inferior topics. His thoughts are rarely articulated, his feeling even less. Do I overcompensate?
Where will this path that I have chosen lead me?
I fear a dead-end, but I'm hesitant to turn back. I've put so much faith in this choice already.
If only he could convince me of my choice and give me something to work towards-but even he doesn't know at the end of the road. He doesn't even know what he wants to be there.
I guess I'll just keep walking until I'm tired.
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