Again, I find that I'm half-in-love with an image.
She's nice, too.
Maybe a little strange and immature--but she's a nice person.
Love? Infatuation? Crush?
The terminology hardly makes a difference. My heart jumps higher just to think about her!
Call me shallow, stupid, or a hopeless romantic--whatever you want to call it. I really don't care anymore. I just know what I feel. And though my logic tells me what I feel is an illusion--propagated by culturally-standardized pixels that forward artificial beauty--...I cannot deny that it brings me joy all the same. And this joy does conjure passion.
And I will lovingly write, draw, sing, play, or compose about it.
So why care for the reality of the situation?
Why care for the person, the place, and the possibility?
Why care for the intrinsic motives and attraction-based chemicals that take place inside a human being when they feel they "fancy" another human being?
These phases are so fleeting to me.
But they are the only times in my life where I feel I can create works more meaningful than any theorem, mechanical, or logically driven insight or form of art.
And, as always, I find that I love people less--
than the idea itself.
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