Minding Someone Else’s Mind

I began following a person’s blog, and as embarrassing as this would sound to all those who would care to imagine what I actually meant, I would like to admit I began to develop a simple frenzy over his words.

I regret to write in this entry how I could not divulge the person’s identity nor the person’s blog name for it had remained untouched for the past half a year. I would like to admit again, though I could swear most of you read between the lines, that I had been reading the same poems and the same thoughts over and over the past few nights, with the hope – might I add – that something new came up. Yes. His thoughts had driven me to utter insanity. I wanted to read more.

What I loved most about his writings was the fact that he seemed to be searching for someone. Aren’t we all? Yet, this longing that he felt, I guessed, was one which I believed was extremely rare for a man. I had been witness of men ripping women’s hearts out. I couldn’t go into details about all that as this wasn’t meant to be a rant, but I wanted to express how deep my conviction had become that men often love their women… until the next one comes along. (That’s just me.)

I guess that was the whole reason I often read romance novels and watched romantic comedies with happy ever afters, and fairy tales with love-at-first-sight junkies. That was the whole reason I began imagining stories of my own and writing romance novels with heroes that were too perfect even with their flaws. I began to develop images of men I knew could not exist in the real world, and I actually believed they didn’t… and that they never actually never would.

So when I stumbled across this man’s blog, I questioned every single thought I had about love. I questioned the very fantasies I had about men, and how I created them to be when it came to romance and marriage and lovemaking and courtship. I asked myself if my fantasies weren’t exactly fantasies at all for a very few lucky women. I asked myself if I was one of those very few lucky women. And while I thought about the answer to those self-directed questions, I further asked myself something which my best friend asked me moments ago: For how long was I planning to read and re-read his entries until I had finally found myself so worn out of imagining that the woman he was searching for was actually me? I would have to find that out, too.

So for now, I guess, I didn’t have that much of a choice but to keep going back to his blog, read and re-read, and imagine and hope that for once in my life, I had found someone who would resemble a man so perfect that he would not fit the real world I came to know and believe.






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