Paper Boat Dreams

I feel like just updating this blog, but I have nothing artful to speak about. What better method than just ramming down the keyboard and listening to a good list of indie music?

Andrew Belle is playing on my Windows Media Player right now. Ever since I first heard ‘Oh My Stars,’ I’ve been hooked. This is one of the few tracks that I can enjoy the whole working shift. Belle’s voice is nice, even if he sounds like beating his baton. HAHA Bah, it’s raspy and orgasmic. Perfect for this time. (It’s 2:30 am, btw.)

For a personal note, my biggest complaint about my life now is that things are turning quite unhealthy. Despite some interesting instances, and a cliche love story going on for a month now, it’s mostly tedious and dry. Yeah, I’m a really boring person off the single life. The partner? Oh, uninteresting! Sharing a note about him needs a year or two, so at least in the story/poem that I will write abt him he will come changed or whatever I’d want him to be. God! This is crazy. But I love him. A LOT. Of course, I can make our story exciting in here or if I prepare it beforehand, but I wont. So I’ll just spout all the things off of the top of my head. What am I talking about?! It’s cold here. Excuse this blabbering.

Belle & Sebastian’s Oh Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying is next on queueing. Btw, I’m going to make a trip to my father’s hometown probably next month. I certainly need a vacation. All things have been so whiney, so this invitation to a wedding is just timely. I have to take this before all the wells of opportunity run out.

I’ll stop muttering to myself now, because I have 15 minutes taking my break. Please visit my poetry blog – Noiseless Patient Spider – and feel free to drop comments on a few poems you’ll like. Have a wonderful day!

I take my pen reluctantly, believing as I do in the virtues of acquaintance and world peace and not wanting to stir up a human heart, but when it comes to a friend and what he means to me as a genuine confidant and you – a nitwit pokemon, a sniveling drunk who pukes out an apology so self-serving, I’m afraid I must take a firm stand.

Perhaps serious commitment is not of interest to you and that, you valued my friend less. It’s as if you think relationships can be woven without a hem of loyalty, that you can easily mope around and look for another welcoming outlet into which you can release your salivating fantasies and, when caught, expect my friend (who knows the routes and dangers of homosexual affairs) to forgive such follies.

To be fair with you, I know you worked hard to have a good partner (what faggot doesn’t do that?) and I do not question your traditional I-need-to-meet-the-people-in-your-life nature, or your forget-the-details approach, or your time. But you made a grave mistake when you went south just to f*ck a culprit (whom my friend knew for awhile and didn’t expect to be the threat of this whole affair). If the adherents of such activity wish to enjoy its good time and the wild gyrations in the confines of wherever the two of you were that moment, such is a privelege only meant for uncommitted folks or those faggots professional enough to get away, because when this congress is thrusted upon a relationship (which you are in) and you expect my friend to forgive or to choose between pride and love or bribe his long-held idealisms just to give you another chance, not only are you breaking Trust, you are also imposing the very unpleasant thing for a starting relationship. That is submission.

On the other hand, you must remember that we are no longer in the medieval age, the time when people could freely conquer another land and were always ready to take off their shields to bed with a stranger without thinking whether that partner is clean or not. We are in a generation that diseases can knock a person right after his pleasures, gossips can make your face fall off in public. I do not claim that the culprit or whoever you are into are carriers, but you should have realized that the vast majority of people like us is active and some of them maybe are contracted from God-knows-what chances.

And you know what rudes me most? You finished a health-conscious degree. Don’t you have a little thought of what your activity might give you in the future? You should have not taken the course and, instead, proceed slutting around. And don’t you realize that a stranger is ten times (or more) dangerous to you than you are to my friend? Does this compulsion to f*ck a stranger make you a better lover? And now that things have come to unexpected endings, can a satisfied penis save your face?

You know what… you should have remained closeted or acted straight for the rest of your life because you cannot validate the heart of a faggot out of such unapologetic action. You don’t have a character to function.

And please..

Don’t swim upstream. Don’t piss into the wind. You’re not a God. Your c*mshots are not as charming as confettis. Simply get along by going along and carry your head higher than your crotch.

There is something just to proximity, to having known a person by constant conversations, to loving his words and the realizations behind it, the cheerful voice that comes out of him, the efforts he makes to be amusing, and then, too, something to having been awhile– let’s say, a week or two, a day, an hour, the time in which you were removed, briefly free of him, even– and to coming back into places you had been before and finding him still there, unchanged, the same as he was when you last checked on him, left him.

But there is something to this, to finding that you cannot possibly fill in what he was in your absence and, whatever your way of feeding and fishing, your words still mean nothing to him. That whatever subtlety or frankness your concern take, you cannot still imagine him as having been anything at all, even just making the most of his unexpected dependence on you, his forced submission to people he knew nothing deep. Something about this is bound to overcome you.

This happened to me many times when I brought someone to places. It swayed me. It had been easy enough to go away, to sit in a beer house or in a park and hate him for an hour or for the rest of my life, but being again in his proximity, seeing the way he laughed at my jokes as he planted another cigarette in his mouth– a thing as minor as that– made hating him, even for a second, feel like a crime. Watching him as he smoked, I decided not to tell him about everything else. I decided not to go to my other appointments, to stay an hour with new friends in another beer house. I’d cancel two or three interesting meetings.

These things happened many times. And after many times, just this morning, finally, I wakened this love with a fingernail scratch.