segunda-feira, julho 18, 2005


below is a snippett from something i wrote in high school--starting slight in the middle of it all:

But the point I am writing about is not about that one person. It's about the conflict inside when I am 17 years old, wanting to say "love," yet knowing that may be a terribly wrong thing. Because I know that love will eventually turn into committment, and there are many I may meet, and what I am feeling is very likely to be a bad case of infatuation. Because every song applies, every poet speaks, and every brush sends a look or, more specifically, several looks in one second. I feel it taking over my face; in that second my eyes tell of love, excitement, followed by a blush of embarrassment and fear of it being read. Goethe tells my confusion, though probably meant for a different situation, in his poem "New Love, New Life"; "Heart, my heart, what will come of this? What oppresses you so greatly? What an unfamiliar, new life! I no longer recognize you." "Ach, wie kamst du nur dazu!" he continues, "Ah, how did you get this way? If I want to withdraw from [him] swiftly, to pull mysellf together, to escape [him], at the very same moment, alas, my path leads me back to [him]. Love, love, let me go!" So I will sit, wait, and endure. What will be, will be.

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