I think I too hastily wrote about my response to yesterday's visit by the OGF. Something compelled me to write about it. It was such an intense emotional response, I think, mixed (not for the first time) with misplaced anger. These emotional things are interesting: nothing is ever straightforward with them. You have all sorts of feelings at once, and suddenly feel like a confused adolescent all over again. Those two sentences sound awfully naive, or at least obvious: an unorignal assessment of the human condition. Conventional prose really fails in situations like this, mostly because what one writes will never catch the situation properly, or will come off as seeming inane at best, and out-right idiotic at worst. It never quite catches the gut churning, throat tightening, eye-bulging, heart pounding desperation of such overwhelming emotional moments. Words lay like wet blankets, smothering the fire.
I felt compelled to write about the incident. As I mentioned in the entry itself, I also felt repulsed by the idea. Ultimately I wrote about it because I am seriously wondering what the hell the response was all about. I was hasty in writing about it, and am glad I was, because not 20 minutes later, the whole event had slipped out of my attention, and only reading it here reminded me of it again.