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Diary of a delusional realist

And just like that, in the middle of the abundance of bodies and irrelevant adolescent drama, where they fantasise about each other almost naked, because the idea of complete nakedness is too much to handle as it longs for approval and appreciation, and overwhelms one with extreme beauty they are yet not ready to encounter, yet they do it anyway because Freud is right- I told him I loved him. I gave in to the idea of hope and relief when one comes to embrace this inexplicable feeling that is described as love. I do that, though, knowing that I am to a certain extent being honest. However, I know myself, rather than that, I hope for myself that I am able or capable of feeling this exhilarating emotion they (so call) love to a deeper and subsequently more extreme level, because due to the expectations I have created by imagining how and what the phrase “I love you” would feel like once I came to find myself in the situation where that phrase did indeed come out of my mouth. But by then honestly evaluating it, at that moment I did not feel complete, on the contrary; I felt rather empty.

Empty maybe because the thrill wasn’t there? Yet I am only young, although I still wonder if the thrill is ever going to be found within me, or make its honourable appearance in my life. Though emptiness remained because of the expression on his face, because he would never have expected a person like me, that feels so strongly about certain matters that brings love into a question, when it comes to my priorities, would blab out a phrase like that, in the middle of such chaos and informalities. No, he would have expected me not to say anything, nothing at all in those situations. On the contrary, he would rather have me quiet, and so familiarly observant of certain things, so safe. Instead I opted for the missing thrill, of surprising him with my words to such a depth I could even manage to raise suspicion. Maybe the missing thrill is the delicacy and art of throwing heavy words into light, almost inexistent moments. Where and when the meaning gets lost into literally nowhere, and his mind races while the answer on how to react to my phrase fades. Event related potential, the milliseconds taken to process and even react to such unexpectedness took my stimulus into the late component, making his brain activity account to my doings and take 500 to 1,000 milliseconds to process and reflect my so thrilling, arbitrary phrase.

Yet his eyes did sparkle, and maybe it’s not about the overwhelming sensation that is the ideology behind being in “love” but the ability to stimulate such truthful and unique response to the point of perplexity the person to whom this particular phrase may be directed, that is what this concept of human interaction and so called “love” emotion is all about. It is for a fact that the simplicity and subsequent complexity of that phrase , raised a certain shadowy cloud of mixed interpretations. Clearly, the improbability of the perfect precision of that situation, aroused by the given circumstances of, first, my particular relationship with him. Secondly, how he pictures me (presuming he even knows who I am or the traces of my thoughts). Finally his ability to feel this particular emotion in a range of intensities. Which after taking in to account all of those given circumstances end up being summed up by the understanding or inability to understand what the overall situation was even about. Which then results in insecurities caused by such truthfulness and the key element of surprise, that at the end of the day, when he lies in bed, he will not help but wonder if in fact what happened was even real.

By Eduarda Anguita


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