Attraction is irrational

There are things we rarely speak to anyone of, things we keep to ourselves. In fact, like Schopenhauer said, "The world is a masquerade," this German philosopher also pointed out body language in his special care of the eye. See, I speak as lightly as is considered socially prudent, and I boast through writings. People who get a kick out of it end up being the greatest of friends. And what if not friends are we, really? Friends do not demand, but they can give and receive. It is hard for us men to understand. We need to cultivate patience, establish trust, and never cross unto what is in it for us. Women recognize weakness, neediness; except, there is no independence, really. We always depend on something or someone; if not, we got denial to thank for. You may find yourself financially secure, but how emotionally secure do you feel? I think men differ from most women on this very critical issue. Choices are good, just as long as you're sticking to one. And it makes sense, it is logical. To depend a bit emotionally on one another is natural, beneficial even. No one is invincible. Monkeys kept on captivity, or raised in isolation, never dare and keep their faces covered. We are social animals. We need one another. We grow fond of familiar little pleasures. I asked this very question to coworker: "Why do you strike conversations with all the girls?" He said, "Well, it makes time go faster." And he's absolutely right. I'm not a stranger to awkward situations, except I don't make myself miserable about them. I think we are logically choosing it. At some level, we manage our impulses and yet, always find a way to communicate subtly, with eyes, movement, vanity, our truest desires are exposed in the open. It takes a different mind to see. I speak eyes, and engage others with light conversation, nothing too complex. I marvel at their stories, but also design my own twisted themes. Eyes, sudden shifts of movement, gestures, tonality, indifference... How insane can your curiosity drive you, when you never tell the ending to a story? Except, I do give something back. Like a good magician, I try not to reveal the trick, my act depends on it; others will tackle you with accusations of vagueness, tag you with ambiguity or try to carefully unwrap the gift to see what's inside; a boost to their vanity is what they mostly seek.
Attraction is irrational and no matter how much I try to evade the issue, it can sometimes become quite addictive. Rituals, temptation, they all have a place in us for as long as we carry a heart. The best things in life have gone unsung, and only a shadow out of the bright torrent of light is left on paper. Memory is not a safe haven; all things in time will be forgotten. Our kids will never love us the way we love them. This is madness, I say. To the mind, the more you try to resist it, the more you succumb. Therefore, I let it go, I give chase, I see a human connection and I follow it without an agenda in mind. Sometimes, though, my mind wanders... rarely a crush lasts longer than a few weeks, months, maybe more if the subjects are not exposed to one another daily. Nothing kills attraction faster than familiarity. As human beings, we constantly seek novelty; we descend from ancestors who left behind home and ventured into unknown lands. Show a baby the same face, and soon that baby will grow bored.
You get the rare opportunity at work to spend more time with them than friends. After all, people at work you see everyday. And yet, they don't see one another as friends; politenessm courtesy, are to be exerted but that rarely has the warmth of an embrace, the reassurance of touch, let alone any romantic agenda at work.
There, of course, is temptation, luring us in. It's only natural that our social duties forbid us of indulging ourselves in a sea of pleasure. Imagine oceans, supernovas of oceans, of pleasure... Feel guilty about it? Try it. (Along these very lines, I read somewhere it is the reaction that the brain takes in the aftermath of a pleasurable experience that causes pain, as if this primitive brain of ours could not possibly conceive of pleasure without the slightest degree of pain. It makes sense. After all, if we were to find ourselves happy, we would never bother to strive. Is misery a necessary evil? A cruel ally?)
Everywhere, there is pleasure to be found. In any direction, at any particular place, the possibility of love can keep us, sometimes, in chase mode. I remember a particular sketch, repeated constantly in Roberto Gomez Bolaños' Chavo del Ocho, in which Doña Florinda meets Don Ramon, and it is always the same thing. Of Course, Bolaños is mocking the notion of romantic love in its cheesiest and corniest form, as it never leads anywhere. Put her in a pub, or a nightclub, and I'd be making out with her in a matter of minutes. I never date again or even pursue girls I meet this way. No, silly, I'm not a moral moron. Nothing but great people have I met this way, most open and warmest of all. If you want something to grow, give it time, space and nourishment. Feed them patience, see their humanity, and do marvel at their inner beauty. Can't quite put into words something that a smile or a look will explain a thousand fold. A picture is worth a thousand words, yeah. The idea is to have this conversation with ourselves, keep others in suspense. Nothing was revealed in the end. What a sad spectacle! You should have been capable of breaking the spell you created. I was caught up in the process and I kept it cool, quiet, like I do under the circumstances. I wanted things to go unnoticed, except I was in front of a highly intuitive female. Attraction, to quote De Angelo, isn't a choice. It probably had something to do with my former shy self. See, I started this platonic affair so long ago, I was mutating into someone else. Some of the old program, the unnecessary drama, weighed in. And not that I not contemplate it rationally, its ramifications, in my mind, I would. I could. I probably should. But I won't.
Still though, those bursting glances, little undetected rituals, whenever we find one another, the energy is quite explosive. Places, planned circumstances, hope you're not holding a hot drink in your hand when you read this. No one should be crazy enough to read all of the entries in here. I read One Hundred Years of Solitude four times. But there are no books like that. I read Candide, at least twice. Unequivocally, when we find ourselves obsessing about something no one else knows or talks about, it usually bears a little insanity. Yes, we're insane. It's irrational. Given the circumstances, I'd personally have a collection of girls and they'd all be you. I think, quite honestly, there's a collection of you. A recollection, actually. No, I'm talking about A, B, C, D, E, F, or G. I'm right here and now, by myself. Nobody else exists here. It's me and this mindless, endless chat.
How boring can we choose sometimes to be.