She’s really not that pretty, you know. Well, she is, but she’s just not as pretty as I remember her and never is. She’s never as pretty as when I see her after a long time or when I think of her when I’m with her, or when I think about her when she’s gone. She’s not actually that pretty. In some ways she’s very plain.
If I look at a picture sometimes I can realize it. I can say to myself, “This girl isn’t beautiful, in fact she’s rather ordinary.”
As soon as I put the picture down, I forget. She’s the most beautiful girl in the world again. If I glance at the picture, she’s the most beautiful girl in the world, but if I study it, she’s ordinary.
It’s an odd phenomenon is all, but not one I particularly want to complain about.