fragmentedrambler-blog

[fragmentedrambler-blog]

I used to like big arms

Back when I was still in high school, there was a time when I was obsessed with muscly guys. You know, the athletic type. I think every gay guy goes through that phase when your eyes constantly dart across the room searching for those arms that seem to not fit into the sleeves of the school uniform. There’s that fascination with the projected notion of masculinity, the fixation at something which one does not have. 

I, myself, am not masculine. I’ve never really fit into society’s standards of masculinity, and frankly, I still wonder how easier my life would’ve been if I only were a wee bit manlier. 

People will judge you based on the information that they knew about you, and I, being a fairly secretive person back then, was subjected to the typical treatment of the typical teenage homosexual. Yes, I’ve been bullied. Yes, I got called names and I struck back as well. I’ve experienced this on a daily basis. 

I yearned for someone to protect me, someone who could make the hunters go away. Thinking about it now, maybe I didn’t like big arms as much as I thought I did. God knows I’ve liked people who throw weaker punches than I do. 

I used to like big arms when I craved security.  Now, not so much. I’ve learned to love myself, my own arms, my own security. I don’t know what I need, to be perfectly candid, but I have all the time in the world to figure it out.

[fragmentedrambler-blog]

A hundred million tons, down, down, down

You can’t pinpoint the exact time you started feeling this way. All you know is the coldness of the ground, the inescapability of gravity.

Do you know that feeling? When your mind just shuts down and every thought dissolves and sinks into the void? 

You’re not happy. You’re not sad. You’re just... you.

And then you start feeling better, or worse. It doesn’t really matter anyway, because your very being is fluctuating between existing and living. Some days, you want to do it all. Some days, you wish for peace.

But all the time, you ponder for meaning. You grasp aimlessly at everything you see, to no avail. You decide some battles are worth fighting. You convince yourself that your losses are just growing pains.

Some days, the pain is too hard to handle so you stare at the ceiling, lay down mindlessly as the alarm blares on. You are awake. You need to be awake, but you don’t want to. 

Most days, I don’t want to go out of bed. It feels like I’m chained to a ball going down, all the way down. A hundred million tons, breaking every bone in my body, breaking me. 

Down, down, down.

Sometimes, I have the strength to take the ball wherever I go. Sometimes, I can’t even shift my ankles away.

Is it too much to ask for good days to last longer?

[fragmentedrambler-blog]

Parity

Heart, planes, clowns

A lot more, my fingers accustomed to reach

To bend and fathom

Sentences, words, letters

All zeroes and ones, my fingers struggle to tell

What only my lips can convey

Maybe just smoke and mirrors

Emotions, convictions, the truth

A hundred miles away, my fingers fail to find

That habitual warmth

Of convenience, compromise

Hearts, planes, clowns

Send

[fragmentedrambler-blog]

Escapism, 1

Exactly 109 days ago, I lost the only love I have known and I feel perfectly fine about it. Well, except for the times I don’t.

There are moments when I wake up in the dead of night holding on to the railings of my bed, and my first immediate thought is either “I’m going to die someday” or “You let a good man walk away.” I let my dreadful musings take their course and go back to slumber and wake up fine. 

We had this agreement, a verbal contract, as to how our mutualism would work. I would make him a list of all the tracks I think are good and in return, he would forbid me from wearing cargo shorts, which he considers social suicide. I don’t really think much of how I look. He’s the handsome one, anyway.

And his eyes. God, I swear they sparkled. Even in a very dark alley, I am absolutely sure they glinted and told me, “I want you to get home safe.” And his taste. He tasted of smoke and of longing, and for once, I wanted to be the weak one. 

But I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t let anyone tear down my walls knowing full well I’m going to be the one casting the foundation and lining the blocks again and again. And I hate myself for it.

The first and last time I told him I loved him was when he was blackout drunk, and started mumbling about how he missed the taste of alcohol and how he missed holding someone. And it just came out of his mouth.

“I love you.“

And I said those words back, knowing that they didn’t count for the moment, but I fucking wished they did. Because I could never say those words again, and for the last time I wish I could say them still so I could reaffirm what I really felt, even though some days, this romance thing just feels like a very shitty game made by some bored motherfucker so he could mess with sad, lonely souls wanting to turn their lives around.

Now I can’t listen to my favorite songs the same way again, but that’s fine. I’ll forever be grateful for the sweet, little time granted for us. I actually can’t recall all the little details, things I’m supposed to be missing the most, but does it really matter? No one has a good grip on time these days, anyway.

And so, I try to find new songs, but the same notes resonate. And wail and thrash. They’re violent and unforgiving still, but I feel perfectly fine about them. Well, except for the times I don’t.