"You were so dumb"

The post's title is verbatim from one of my high school classmates' poems

I feel like such a fool. I'm learning, but I doubt that will spare me from realizing what I am. Interestingly enough, I met someone - a fellow student - who has greater anxiety problems than I do. She was actually quite pretty, although I had the urgent need to banish the thought, for I fear time and my own shadow. I told her the story about the blind man at the stock exchange getting surgery to open his eyes; his prodigious gift for mathematics was undone. Reflecting on that, theater, and my own interpretation of Shakespeare's views, I think I am a fool, simply because I have constantly pursued the objective. I completely forgot how valuable subjective thought and analysis is. It allows the reader to transcend interpretation, or possess their own individual stance (right or wrong), and then realize the truth: we cannot judge. We cannot know, for the man, the play, and the story is a mystery. Nothing is certain, except the two things not mentioned here. To be able to convey emotion, beyond story - is that not cathartic? Everyone looks to the Greeks. I do not despise them but know that nothing is certain. Again. We are flawed, and thus philosophy is flawed. I cannot live in this world, not when I have learned such a horrid truth!

But returning to the original topic - I felt such compassion for that woman. But like a tool, a fool, and a weak human being, I offered no such potential for a sequel to our conversation. And I fear I am to regret all my past chance interactions, especially when they are like this, because when there is feeling, there is no time for them. And when there is time, there is no courage within me. Or, I have been so beaten over the years that I cannot do anything remotely pertinent in the subject of wooing. Relationships are my weakness. I don't know the first place to start. Ugh, there I go again. I would want to romanticize, dreaming into the late, early, and all hours that she were some fleeting angel, that she were returning to cry sweet mercy to us all among some pearly-coloured host. She inspires me. How can someone that beautiful be flawed? It's inconceivable, and yet, if she does command some wonderful power over syntax and language, that makes all the sense in the world. Does she do art and writing during her free time? A haiku? Or two? A vignette. What does she read? I promise not to judge but will judge anyway, then hit myself over the head because of it. Believe me. I am regretting everything