Thinking too much, feeling too deep, and never doing enough. Those words are probably best to explain me right now. So much, in fact, that I’ve succumbed to micro-blogging way more than actual blogging. It’s easier. The way my mind flits about and my emotions sway whichever way they want, constructing sentences or (horrors!) paragraphs seems too much to handle sometimes.
Or maybe I’m just lazy and I’ve gotten so good at psychobabbling my justifications.
Anyway, it’s sure been a while, huh? Judging from my Plurk posts, which are automatically passed on to my Twitter and Facebook, it was not due to the absence or shortage of random thoughts and feelings or occurrences to write about. Like I said, it was most probably caused by my unwillingness to follow through. Admittedly, even if I wanted to try, arranging the contents of my OCD-ADD-bordering-on-bipolar infested head can be an overwhelming feat. These three short paragraphs you’ve been reading is an excellent example of poor management and writing. They’re stilted and convoluted and awkward. (insert long sigh here)
But moving on, let’s see if I can choose a topic and stick with it and make it somehow – however remotely – interesting.
Oh I know!
I listened to a song tonight: Diamond Ring by Bon Jovi, which is practically the only Bon Jovi song I’ve ever liked. The first time I heard it sung was by my best friend in high school, who also happened to be my biggest crush at the time. I can practically see him now, strumming on his acoustic guitar, his eyes closed during the high notes and occasionally looking in my direction. As if to check if I was paying attention. As if I had a choice.
He was beautiful. Still is perhaps, though I wouldn’t know. We lost touch years ago when he moved to one of the smaller provinces to become a priest. Imagine that. The nunchaku-wielding, motorcycle-riding, multiple-girl-dating, exhibitionistic-masturbating guy grew up to become a priest. Who knew?
He was taller than I am, lighter skinned, brown eyes to my raven ones. As muscled as I was lithe. We balanced each other out, whether physically or emotionally or psychologically. The yang to my yin. Always attentive, always considerate, always flirtatious. What choice did I have but to fall? And I did. Hard. The thing was, though I never hid my homosexuality, it was not something I discussed either. At least at the time. So I never said anything. I was too afraid to lose him and too pathetically grateful for whatever we had to risk it. God, I was a walking cliché.
Still, we were friends. Close friends. Really close friends. He picked me up and took me home before and after school. He’d ask me to sleep over in his room some nights. People sometimes mistook us for brothers when we were out. Those kind of friends. And I still never said anything. Not even when he dated several of my girl friends. Not even when he dated my sister. Not even when I finally met a gay guy and started dating and came out of the closet with a bang to my family and friends. Not even when he took it well. Not even then.
I wonder how he looks now, what I will say if we ever meet again. Last I heard he got married rather quickly. I have no idea where he is, though. I lost his number and changed mine. Different boys who grew up to be different men living very different lives. Maybe we wouldn’t have much to say to each other after all.
Honestly, for someone who says he doesn’t believe in regret, I’m having a serious case of should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. And it’s not like I’m expecting that if I’d told him he’d take me in his arms and we’d kiss and ride his motorcycle into the sunset; nothing like that. I just hate things left unsaid, especially when you realise you might never have the chance to ever say them. As I do now.
So I listen to the song and sing along. Remembering his brown eyes and the lopsided smile playing on his lips, fingers strumming his guitar, holding it like a lover, singing to me singing to his memory.
Well, there you have it. I tried. It sure felt good, even if I’m an emotional mess at this point. Reliving bittersweet memories, though sweet, is apparently bitter still.