Studying Inventions Fine
I really did have a poem with me that day in class. It had taken forever to get it into a condition which I considered satisfactory. It had seemed impossible to word it so that it wasn't obvious who it was about. Neil. Despite the amount of time and effort I'd put into it, the poem was still disgustingly drab and contrived. It was too personal, too close to my deepest feelings, and far too melodramatic. I couldn't read it in public, much less to a public that included him, so when Mr. Keating asked me to read my poem, all my courage, of which there was very little to begin with, faded away. I told him I hadn't written one. I felt horrible lying to him because I actually had written nearly ten; they were just all so completely horrible that they were currently lying in pieces in the wastebasket.
When Mr. Keating forced me to come up with an impromptu poem, I literally wanted to die. "Embarassment" doesn't even begin to cover my sheer horror at being forced to bare my soul in front of so many people, including him. I was turning pink; I wanted the floor to simply swallow me whole. I couldn't help but wonder, Why does this man torture me so? But when the poem was finished and I saw the look on his, Neil's, face, it was all worth it. Awe, complete and utter awe. It shocked me to see that look on his face in reaction to my panicked gibberish, and I suddenly wanted to write him a million poems, to bare my soul to him completely, just to see that look on his face again.
I came to my senses quickly, of course. I realized I was standing in front of a large group of people and suddenly felt ill and embarassed. I quickly returned to my seat, wanting to hear the others' efforts. Instead of paying attention to their poems, however, I keept seeing that look on his face; it was as though he'd seen something of worth in me that he'd known was there all along. I have no idea what.
I could have written him a hundred poems, but none of them would have been good enough. The simple fact that I feel this way about him is proof that I'm terribly, horribly, disgustingly flawed. It makes me so horrific, that no one should be forced to put up with me feeling such things about them. He, especially, should not be subjected to something so revolting. He shouldn't have to worry that his roommate might be having these horrific, stomach-churning fantasies about him.
Around him, I feel both on top of the world and incredibly worthless at the same time. Neil makes me think that anything's possible, that I can do whatever I want to if I have enough courage. I suppose that's what I...
I hate myself. I ought to write something about that.