Confession.

web analytics
Social media. Pictures. A moment in time.

Facebook. Instagram. The ability to directly comment and respond in a public (as far as anyone else is friends with/who follows that account) way. You could send a message but usually a “like” and/or a comment will suffice.

Then there are “stories”. Snapchat and Instagram. The only response is a direct message.

Confession: There are a few stories I look forward to watching every day but I try to resist to watch until I’m about to go to sleep as the anticipation is there is a good chance one of them will leave me with a smile on my face. Trying not to go to sleep with a negative vibe, ya know?

I try not to respond if I’m watching it many hours after where it’d be like I’m just super late… but that also makes it, in these certain cases, very easy to never respond because I watch the whole story after the day is done.

It’s almost like no matter how the day went, one of these stories could be like a great dessert after a bad dinner.

There was one story I watched after an already great night that…

Confession: …had me biting my finger like that Leo DiCaprio meme.

There is this thing that young women do with their stories where it almost looks like they’re using the story as a hand mirror, checking different angles of their face, running a finger or their hand through their hair.

Confession: Most of the time I find this act… (using the slang version of this word) basic.

Most of the time, I can read the seriously high degree of vanity on their face while watching. I see confidence but I also see an attempt to recreate movements of sensual allure, intentionally sassy, hitting the poses and moves hard. It’s cute, I can appreciate the efforts but it’s a dime-a-dozen…

…until…

…there is that one person who does a very casual version of that isn’t throwing it all in the camera. This part of this person’s story was about an object featured in the clip. The accompanying text wasn’t even about her visual but…

Confession: …she had me replaying that clip over and over again.

If you know me, you gotta know/trust that this wasn’t a perverse moment. This was me experiencing poetry in motion. I was writing words in my head over and over with each play.

I don’t think she is the type of young woman to be living for men’s attention. Actually, I’d bet money on that I know that for a fact. I wouldn’t bet money on the idea that she doesn’t understand what she’s doing that can create certain reactions.

There was nothing explicitly provocative going on. In fact, she was well-covered and in no suggestive positions with any suggestive gestures…

…but she is stunning me with her being in her casual softness.

What is hotness? What is the great feeling behind wanting to express that “rating”? Rhetorical questions. I get it. I understand it.

“Hot” is a standard in my mind reserved for an anticipatory idea of sexiness.

I don’t like making judgments of “hotness”. It’s either “looks good” in general, “beautiful” or “gorgeous” as a way to express an inability to be casual about it, or a blog post on WordPress that may contain as much as I can articulate in text but will not ever come close to the pure, enveloping feeling that she left me with.

Because of the subject of that portion of her story, it was inappropriate to me to comment on this. I don’t doubt that there may have been some that did respond. I don’t doubt that she may have been a little flattered. I don’t doubt that she may have been even expecting and excited about maybe one or a few to respond. I don’t know for sure but it wouldn’t surprise me.

Confession: I wanted to respond… so… badly.

It feels like I have this appreciation of beauty in such small details, the subtleties in life, that can be beyond expression and articulation in most people with such detail. For me, this seems to be the only language of beauty that truly matters to me.

She wasn’t doing anything special regarding her movements. A lot of young women put a lot of effort and intention into positioning themselves for the camera. She just didn’t portray any tenseness in her movements. Seeing her shoulders relaxed and the broad part of her neck not trying to use her shoulders to cover any insecurities… because there was none. She was relaxed and just being her. She didn’t look like she was thinking about what would “make the cutest look” or what would “tease the fuck out of these fuckboy followers”.

Maybe that’s what seduces me: Being intrigued by the confidence in her not feeling it necessary to try so hard. Maybe in this world of Instagram wannabe-models and women’s empowerment through unfettered expressions of sexuality with the intention of reiterating “We are not doing this because we need men’s validation but rather we can exude strength just as dominant as them.”, which I do support, something as casual as this part of an Instagram story is a breath of fresh air and enough proof that’s really needed (if more people were willing to see) that confidence and beauty doesn’t need flourishes and anything “extra”.

(Wow. That was one hell of a sentence that I’m sure could be articulated in fewer words but I don’t want to change any single thing of that monster!)

And maybe that’s my difficulty in creating an exclusive connection, aside from the stupid baseless thoughts that she or any young woman friends I have already have better options than me. The difficulty might just be that I find the beauty in the rawness of their being and become indecisive on understanding if it’s love or lust.

Can someone have a lust for loving people as they are? Hmmmm…

That might seem deep… or it might just be worded for that effect but not practically for grammar and the true intended meaning =P

I feel like I have learned well in what to appreciate. There comes times like this where it’s so overwhelmingly appreciated that it sparks a flame in me to want to express or prove in some way that this has me hungry for something I too easily forget I’d have such a desperate appetite for due to not enough of this… just being… to be a normal occurrence.

Confession: I am not afraid of the act of telling her. I am afraid to distract her.

Earlier that night, I was with my cousin having a discussion that at one point was about the “Pretty Girl Syndrome”. If you don’t have any idea what this is, to the exaggerated point… a girl considered pretty by so many that it distracts people from being real with her about things and she goes through life ignorant, detached, and in the dangerous mental state of being easily susceptible to being taken advantage of.

I’ve always been the type of person to be real and wanting to have conversations that are unto something. I’ve expressed how she looks before in simple messages and it always seems fruitless and I end up feeling like I may be perceived as dismissing her message. That’s not my intention… ever.

Confession: I feel like I’m internally being hoisted by my own petard of understanding versus my appreciation of beauty.

It’s like the first rule of fight club only it’s the first rule of a friend’s beauty over social media: You do not talk about your friend’s beauty over social media.

Well, rule broken.

I almost want to type that it’s too bad that story clips only last for 24 hours but then I’d be admitting my semi-obsessive personality. (Did you see what I did there? Confession: I did it anyways.)

This is the reality of reading a really good book, only it’s watching a story… and really the equivalent of re-reading one chapter for the details between the lines.

Confession: I am a normal heterosexual male.

Confession: I think I realize my passionate side and I totally accept it.

This is my appreciation of beauty. I’m glad I have learned to appreciate this type of beauty this way. It’s also a little frustrating because I feel like I may be lost among the many men she or anyone like her has attracted for similar AND different reasons, but being such a presence online entails that kind of perceived “among the many” status quo until I do something that creates a reason to be memorable to her – the equivalent of winning the lottery. Although, that’s not why I typed this blog.

Confession: This isn’t about sex.

I wanted to confess that as much as I try to resist succumbing to thoughts of sexuality and succeeding in doing so, an appreciation of beauty like this and feeling so passionate about it can feel just as sinful…

…and thus…

Confession: I felt compelled to confess.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Powered by WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: