As the wind forcefully blows my hair and activates my arrector pili muscle (well, just wanted to sound smart), series of a particular memory rise inside my brain. When someone raises the question, "Will you go out with me?", plus the decency to follow it up with, "I'll bring you home.", one would most likely be jittery and say the BIG, "I do.", well I mean, "Yes.". For most girls, I consider way braver and smarter and less complicated than I am, they probably would have done what I wish I had. But will never be able to. Ever.
This is the confessions of a coward. (Dreading my need to sound as melodramatic as how movies do it.)
I have dreams of finding that one true love.Who doesn't? But when it does try to creep in my veins, to slowly enter my incapable heart, I shoo it away. This is not a girl who has fallen in love and was left broken. This is a girl drowning with the thoughts of 'what-might-have-been's'. Perhaps, my choice of regretting what I haven't done than regret something I did (in which I believed was more safe than the latter) is a humongous note from a dummy. Guess, I should have just.
I have learned that there are perpetual interventions that persist in our daily lives. That everything has a reason and that reason is everything blah blah. Quite not sure though, if this has now become my habitual excuse for my lack of courage to JUST. PLUNGE. IN! Sixty, rather seventy percent of me, okay, eighty, is now convinced that I have fear of commitment. Sounds cliche in this era of grotesque failed marriages.
When did this world, I, start fearing that uncomfortable, awkward first date. Do not forget that comfort we (okay, I) immerse ourselves in when we communicate with the opposite sex in a loud, dark, congested room. Foolish girl. I've always nagged myself and my girl friends to be meticulous in choosing that right person. I've missed the idea that, I too, should be meticulous in developing myself to be that right woman. That if I want to bring home the bacon, I must swallow that fear, wholly.
To that boy across the table. I wish you took more time to know me. I wish I took the courage to know you too.
This is the confessions of a coward. (Dreading my need to sound as melodramatic as how movies do it.)
I have dreams of finding that one true love.Who doesn't? But when it does try to creep in my veins, to slowly enter my incapable heart, I shoo it away. This is not a girl who has fallen in love and was left broken. This is a girl drowning with the thoughts of 'what-might-have-been's'. Perhaps, my choice of regretting what I haven't done than regret something I did (in which I believed was more safe than the latter) is a humongous note from a dummy. Guess, I should have just.
I have learned that there are perpetual interventions that persist in our daily lives. That everything has a reason and that reason is everything blah blah. Quite not sure though, if this has now become my habitual excuse for my lack of courage to JUST. PLUNGE. IN! Sixty, rather seventy percent of me, okay, eighty, is now convinced that I have fear of commitment. Sounds cliche in this era of grotesque failed marriages.
When did this world, I, start fearing that uncomfortable, awkward first date. Do not forget that comfort we (okay, I) immerse ourselves in when we communicate with the opposite sex in a loud, dark, congested room. Foolish girl. I've always nagged myself and my girl friends to be meticulous in choosing that right person. I've missed the idea that, I too, should be meticulous in developing myself to be that right woman. That if I want to bring home the bacon, I must swallow that fear, wholly.
To that boy across the table. I wish you took more time to know me. I wish I took the courage to know you too.
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