The Power of Myths

The first time I encountered the word myth was in the context of my English class, discussed as a traditional sacred story, a form of literature, which usually expounds on the acts of gods and goddesses, and which attempts to explain social practices or other natural phenomenon. The literary form expands the natural world into something else which is remarkable and extraordinary; a supernatural thing that goes beyond the mundane.

A few years ago, my friend Chris, a public relations specialist, introduced me to the concept of “myth-making”, or the power of an individual to create his own reality. He underscores the power of perception (rather, what is perceived) as something that will ultimately define a person. He says that every person has two aspects: the “real” one, and what is perceived. The two realities blur sometimes, so much so that one cannot delineate what is real with what is illusory, but he emphasizes that the need to delineate is unimportant: both define the type of person one is going to be.

This idea reminds me of an aspect of astrology which not a lot of people are familiar with. There is the zodiac, or the sun sign, which supposedly defines who a person is. Most of us are familiar with this concept. Then there is the moon sign, which supposedly defines how a person is perceived. The two are not usually the same, so a person can be an Aries, but is perceived as a Sagittarius. According to my reading (which I got online), I am a Cancer (adaptable, moody, loyal) but is perceived as an Aries (courageous, impulsive, confident). Those two signs are usually as different as they get.

I don’t know how true those readings are, but I just wanted to underscore the difference between one’s “real” personality, and what is perceived. It is rare that the two are the same.

This idea has many real-world applications. In high school specifically, you are usually defined by how your peers perceive you. If your peers see you as a “loser”, then you begin to think of your reality as that of a “loser”, notwithstanding your many wonderful qualities. When you think about it, it sounds silly, but I personally believe it’s the truth. We are defined in two ways: by our own choices, and by the context (read: perception) society imposes on us.

This is probably why we try so hard to gain some control over how we are perceived. As much as we wish that only we could create the terms for our own life, we know that that is impossible. We are as much a prisoner of our current social context as everyone else. We try to make sure that how we are perceived is the same as how we feel about ourselves, and we try to limit the incongruence, but we can only do so much. We really do not have that much of a choice on the matter, except to that part which we can change about ourselves.

Which is where my friend Chris’ advice comes in, which I think is one of the best advice I have ever gotten in my life. This isn’t his words, but I hope to distill through a metaphor what we have discussed and debated and lived as a life philosophy for years. I hope you find as much wisdom in it as I did.

We are pebbles, but we must aim to feel and look like mountains. Create your reality by controlling (as much as you can) how you are perceived. At the worst, we will be mistaken for boulders or hills, but those are still significantly larger than the tiny stones people will easily discard or throw away. At some point, you will find that you have become a boulder, or a hill, or a mountain, for real.

On the Dark Side of Charity

Driving along the familiar roads of Makati, I find that it is almost impossible for one to never see a homeless person begging, literally, on the street; their gray, unwashed hands knocking on windows of cars, their faces pleading for some of your change, and for food that they may eat. It can be heartbreaking sometimes, especially when the beggar is a child.

But in the Philippines, these people are a familiar sight. Poverty is the rule, not the exception. And when I say poverty, I mean knee-deep in the muck kind of poverty, and I can almost mean that literally. Forget about quality of life or even dignity; in a lot of cases, these people just want to survive. And you can see it in some of these homeless people’s faces, their eyes conveying nothing but desperation.

There are con artists to be sure, who simply go out on the streets to beg, acting like they were handicapped or insane, just so they wouldn’t have to do an honest day’s work. But in a country where the poor outnumber the wealthy and the not-so-wealthy in mind-boggling numbers, it is difficult, if not impossible, to distinguish between the two.

Willie Revillame, an extremely popular celebrity in the Philippines especially among the poor, was once under fire for allowing a child named Jan-jan to simulate the dance of a male stripper on his game show. There are several clips all over the internet, and the first thing you would notice is that the child was crying while it was all happening, and that the audience, in a cruel display of heartlessness, was laughing. Revillame, obviously possessing very little empathy, even went so far as to say that he admired the child for doing what he did just so he could help his family. He then gave Jan-jan Php10,000 as a prize for his performance.

When you watch the whole thing, it literally makes you want to throw up. Have our countrymen been ground so low that they would allow their children to do something so obviously horrible just so they can get by? Are TV shows so blinded by the bottom-line that they are willing to subject a child to pointless psychological abuse just so its audiences are entertained? When will we realize that these people who act like champions for the poor are nothing but greedy hypocritical sharks who really do nothing but profit from our less fortunate brethren? When will we realize that instead of helping, these shows cultivate a culture of mendicancy, where instead of being taught to stand on our own two feet, we are made to depend, our arms outstretched, on the alms given by false kings?

In an obvious display of self-righteousness, one that shows his ignorance and malice and worthlessness, Revillame claims that he shouldn’t be criticized for what he did, and that he was only trying to help the poor and that he only wanted to make people happy.

What hypocrisy. As Conrado de Quiros so aptly put it, it is so “odious that he should treat his guests exactly the opposite of the way Degeneres does. It’s utterly distasteful. The beneficiaries in particular are bled dry for every tearful detail of their miserable lives and made to look as though they are the luckiest people in the world to have been the object of the show’s beneficence. The gratefulness is way too sticky, the beneficiaries virtually kissing the hand of Revillame, which isn’t always metaphorical. The cameras do not flinch at this lavish display of emotion but catalogue every moment of it, with no small encouragement from the host. Revillame himself does not bother to distinguish between the show’s beneficence and his own. In fact he makes it a point to encourage the belief—which has been the secret of his success—that he is doing all this out of the goodness of his heart, and out of the depths of his pockets.”

Revillame lives off the myth that he is one of the poor, that he wants nothing but to help them. The irony is that he is a multi-billionaire who generated his wealth at the expense of countless Filipinos’ dignity.

How to Become Disillusioned with Finding Love

Watch Hollywood romantic movies.  Believe that everyone has a one true love.  Etch into your soul the conviction that you will find that one guy who will inevitably accept you for everything that you are.  Who will love you unconditionally and without question.

Create a list of the qualities the love of your life must have. Set high standards.  Reach for the stars.  He must be tall, handsome, brooding and mysterious.  Intelligent and quirky.  Wealthy.  He must go to the gym regularly. He must have dimples dotting his face when he smiles. His hair must fall a certain way all the time.  

Envision showing him off to your friends and telling them how you fell in love with him because of his lovable personality, or because of how good a person he is.  How you fell in love with the way he laughed.   Or touched your hand.  Or played with your baby sister. Or any other quirky little habit that remind people of how cute he is. Subtly insert a few anecdotes that show how great in the sack he can be.  

Know that you don’t need to tell them how impossibly handsome, intelligent, and wealthy he is; they would see that for themselves. Imagine seeing your friends’ eyes widen with envy.

Stamp down any notion that there might be something wrong with you.  That’s impossible. Remind yourself that you are perfect, or as close to it as anyone can be.  You deserve this, and you deserve someone like him. Cosmopolitan said so, and it can’t be wrong.

Go out on date after date after date.  Constantly be disappointed. Rejection, both rejecting and being rejected, makes you cynical. Build up walls. Surround yourself with the emotional equivalent of a moat. Insult people, and point out how they can never live up to your standards.  Stop dating. Or date with the knowledge that these people will only prove why you are better off single in the first place.

Watch Hollywood romantic movies only so you can make contemptuous comments on the stupidity of their plot. Smile patronizingly at friends who believe in a one true love.  Remind yourself that it doesn’t exist.  That it couldn’t exist. That its existence would imply that there might be something wrong with you.  And that couldn’t be true.   Convince yourself that you like being alone.  No, that you love being alone.  That you don’t feel lonely, and that whatever hole you feel in your life can be filled up by friends and family.  Sleep at night with the nagging sentiment that you are missing something, and hope for the best that things will be better in the morning.

Whatever Gets You Through the Day

I was a freshman in law school when my friend Mike was accepted by a university in Australia for a master’s degree. He took up Finance, under a scholarship program given by a prestigious international organization. He had a boyfriend before he left, but they broke up because they both thought that they’ll be incapable of maintaining a long-distance relationship.

We’ve been close friends for a while, so we maintained contact, although mostly through chat. We spoke with each other about two-three times a week, and discussed everything and anything under the sun. Mike was usually tipsy, if not outright drunk. It was in Sydney where he discovered his fondness for red wine, especially the cheap kind that comes in a box.

Our conversations usually start with him sending me a private message just so he can complain about mostly inane, random stuff.  I barely listened, since I was also caught up in my own worries then.  Our conversations never really felt like actual conversations.  It was more like we were delivering monologues, and the other person was just there for the ride.  We both spoke, and neither of us listened.

I didn’t notice the inordinate amount of glasses of wine he consumed, or the constant stream of complaints he made.  I also don’t think he noticed how tired I was back then, how frayed my nerves were, how wrong everything seemed to be for me.

But the fact that he was there was a comfort, even if he never really understood, or cared to understand, what I was going through.  And it was a few years later, when he came back, when I learned that he felt exactly the same way.  It didn’t matter that I wasn’t truly listening, or that I had my own concerns to worry about. The important thing was that I was there, and that was what he needed at the time.

(He told me he was suffering from a crippling depression, and could barely function as, well, a normal human being.  In one instance, he did not bathe for three weeks, and was only forced by his roommates to do so because they could no longer stand the smell.) 

And it’s funny because, to be honest, I wasn’t being a good friend at the time.  But neither was he.  We were both very selfish, and way too caught up in our own problems.  But it didn’t matter.  I was there when he needed me, and he was there when I needed him. And at the end of the day, that was enough for both of us to get us through those tough days.  

An Old Conversation About Man, Personal Universes and Belief

photo

I was thinking about other stuff while I was in the train.

Amazing how man is no? I mean, we make beautiful things, that's for sure. We make them in all sorts of ways; tangible and intangible. Like architecture and music. It's like man has the entire universe for options and when he makes something, he picks out distinct things to work with, and he ends up with something else that's greater than its parts. I think they call it an ouevre.

And these ouevres, you know, if you come to think about it, are all basically definitions. An encapsulation of the enormity of everything. We can make it pretty, or make it sound great, or whatever you want it to be. You hold it in your hand, proclaim it's the entire existence of everything, and I don't think you're wrong. Then, when you, uhm, release it (to your desk for example), it becomes a part of every other thing. But in that moment when you had it in your hand and you're looking at it, it's the entire universe. Am I making sense?

What's amazing is that man has the ability to create these definitions for himself and has the freedom and intelligence to do so. It's like we're all gods. Or maybe pro-active observers or something.

Wow. Pure poetry. :)

We are gods. Though some replace this power with apathetic existentialist whining. That doesn't change the fact that we're still relatively insignificant in the grand scheme of things of course, but still, like you said, we are gods, if only for a particular fleeting moment that is, for oneself, as long as Time and as far-reaching as the universe.

Thanks. :) You got what I said pretty well. I was afraid someone might read whatever I wrote down in a Christian context. (Like most people would. Not that it's bad, but it's way off course).

But when you mention the universe as this vast, ultra-incomprehensible big, big space, and compare it to man, you are talking about man as a material body right? I mean yeah, we're not even a speck of all that. But when you take man's ability to create, it's like time and space cease to matter, you know? I mean, why must we all think the universe is this super big place? Why can't it be whatever we see and assess and only that? It's actually difficult to explain without contradicting myself... sigh, but I think you get it.

We need to think in both contexts, I believe. My own personal universe gives me power, but in the context of the (material) universe it stops me from being a narcissistic megalomaniac who believes is better than everyone else.

The thoughts do not really contradict themselves. They're two very different things concerning two very different logic systems.

That sounded pretty good. Why can't I phrase my thoughts and feelings like your first paragraph? Lol.

Although, I'm not really keen on the idea that man has a natural inclination towards becoming a narcissistic megalomaniac when he (only) considers his personal universe, or maybe I just don't want to believe that.  I mean, somehow, he must have already translated his experience of his personal universe as something that other people already have experienced.

I also think that this interplay of personal universes is extremely fascinating. Funny how there's a lot of conflict and compromise just to arrive at the same basic notion or idea.

You're right I guess. Empathy is usually a great way to stop oneself from becoming a narcissistic megalomaniac.

On a related note, I've always found my relative insignificance to the material universe a source of power. Put it this way: If everything I do will in the end ultimately be unimportant, and is only important to me and my immediate surrounding environment, then it becomes terribly, terribly important to me. Thus, I get power from it.

Some people, on realizing their insignificance to the universe, are paralyzed. These are usually people who believe in power and a certain grandeur i.e. heaven, money, fame, armies. Then there are those who gain power from it, like me, who enjoy their relative obscurity to the world at large.

I agree. This relative insignificance DOES make you consider your actions to be either meaningful or meaningless no? That's a great point. That's something I've always believed in, although this is, I have to admit, the first time that belief of mine has ever been put into words.

It is pure self-empowerment I think. A very humanist way of looking at the universe. The world revolves around you because when you die, it really does end; well, at least for you anyway. So everything is important.

So I believe in making a difference and trying to achieve something. But I'm not foolish enough to believe it will become more important that what it really is.

I don't know if I believe it just ends when I die. Maybe, maybe not. It ends in one sense that's for sure. But I'm alive now. And every time I reflect on the "now", that for me is infinity.

Same affinity. But, for me anyway, the threat of death (not necessarily my own) makes me look at things for what they are, without having to worry about stuff that really doesn't concern me now. Maybe death isn't the proper word. I think what I really mean is when anything important (including my own life) ends. The threat of the important thing ending gives that important thing (whatever it is) a new dimension of importance and urgency.

---

Original, unedited conversation can be found here.

People are Made Up of Stories

Image taken here.

Dear Fickle Cattle,

I'm a new fan of your blog.  I haven't even browsed through each tab and entry yet.  I just saw a link from a friend in FB to your blog and I became an instant fan after I read your open letter.  Honestly, I cried, I could relate to it so much.  I hope you don't mind my telling this story. 

I realized I was gay towards the end of college in UP Diliman.  I was supposed to have a secret wedding with my girlfriend at the time since we both thought she was pregnant.  When we found out that she actually wasn't, it was such a relief. Afterwards, we decided to take things more slowly.  During that period, I tried to find myself, and slowly realized my inclination towards the dark side of the force. (I'm not sure how I feel about comparing homosexuality with the dark side, but I'll let that slide for now -- FC).  It was a very emotional stage in my life when I realized I was gay.  I didn't know who to turn to. 

During my years of experimentation and struggle, I met this guy named T.  I instantly felt a connection with him though he had a very different view of gay relationships compared to what I had.  Basically, he thought that having a relationship which no one would acknowledge did not make any sense.

Knowing that we could only be friends, I contented myself with the friendship he had to offer.  Eventually, I met two more of his friends.  The four of us became close, and our friendships made me almost forget that I liked T as more than a friend in the first place. It helped me move on. 

Eventually, T realized that he did like me more than as a friend. By that time however, I realized I was already falling for our other friend A.  When we realized that T was falling for me, A and I decided not to tell T of our relationship to protect him from unnecessary hurt. 

This was a mistake. Our other friend B decided to put our story in his blog, thinking no one would ever read it.  T eventually did, and everything became a big mess. The relationship, the secrecy and the eventual unintentional disclosure created a rift between all of us. 

I decided to distance myself from all three of them since I felt that I started our falling-out. Consequently, we grew apart.

A lot of things have happened since.  But, even with all that has changed, I still long for the kind of friendship I had with them which I have never experienced, and probably would never experience, again.  When I saw your post, An Open Letter to an Old Friend, it reminded me of my friendship with T.  I feel like those are the exact same words I would've told him, given the chance.  He was my best friend and I regret crossing the line that caused our friendship to end.

Since coming out in college, I never had any gay friends other than T, A and B. But I already feel like the possibility of our friendship being rekindled died out years ago.  I'm not even sure if I'll ever meet friends like them.  At some point, we tried, all four of us, to rekindle the friendship we had, but we only found out that we've become strangers to one another.

I've always been proud of my sexual orientation since I came out almost a decade ago.  My workmates know of it, I joined a frat in my attempt at law school and even told my batchmates that I was gay.  I guess I don't allow myself to be defined by my sexuality.  But, you know what, sometimes I wish I had allowed myself to be so defined.  I wish I had given myself the chance to embrace my sexuality.  Had our friendship not met such an early demise, I'm sure my life would've been much more colorful.

Thanks for taking the time to listen.  Sometimes, talking to a complete stranger makes it easier to open up.  Your blog brought to the surface a lot of emotions that I've been bottling-up through the years. 

Following your entries, 

R 

To the 13 Year Old Boy Who Shot His 17 Year Old Lover at the Mall (Notes on a Murder-Suicide)

Image taken here.

It was with a peculiar, and perhaps less than noble, fixation that I read about your crime.  A crime which was extraordinarily morbid, and sensational.  And I gathered the following details: You were thirteen years old. You stole a .22 caliber pistol.  You wrote a suicide letter; short, but it got the message across.  You went to SM City Mall, Pampanga.  You met your seventeen year old lover in front of the Astrovision store in the mall's Building 3.  You shot him in the head.  The bullet lodged in his brain and left him brain dead.  You then turned the gun on yourself and pulled the trigger.

And then there are the things I imagine:  How you walked up to him, angry and hurt; how you made a speech, hoping that he would understand; how he rejected you; how you pulled a gun, and felt some small bit of satisfaction at the fear that suddenly came into your lover's eyes; how you shot him in the head; how he bled, and bled, and kept on bleeding; how you realized that he was going to die for real; how you kept on repeating that you didn't mean for any of this to happen; how you realized what a lie those words were; how, in your heart, you knew you meant it; how you didn't want to die; how you felt you had you no choice; how cold, metallic and uncaring the gun felt in your hand; how thoughts of dying felt better than the idea that you would go through life without him; how you pointed the gun at yourself and pulled the trigger; how you didn't realize that there would be so much blood. That you would have so much blood. As if the flow of blood would never end. A river of blood.  

How you lay on the floor gasping, waiting for the darkness to consume you. Hoping that in death you could be together. Frightened of the possibility that you won't.

Then a moment of silence. Perhaps stubborn righteousness. Perhaps regret.

How you died.

And then a call to two sets of parents unmindful of the strange, compelling drama that has just claimed the lives of their two sons.  How they did not understand.  How they wailed and cried and mourned.  How they railed against anyone they could blame: the mall security, God, the world.  How they wanted to have their sons back, questioning how the world can continue going on. How the world remains unchanged and unconcerned. 

How they blamed themselves. How they blamed themselves. How they blamed themselves.  

How their lives are never the same again.  How they died, in their own way. How there are more victims to this story than those dead.

News about the shooting can be found here.

An Open Letter to an Old Friend

Image taken here.

I don’t remember when we first met.  We were young definitely, but outside of the faded images in my head of you running around the bright hallways of our school, I couldn’t remember much of anything else.  You had hair then, I think, which resembled your mother’s: uncontrollably wavy, and a deep black. I also remember you being a bit of a snob. Even as a six year old, you had an amazing sense of your own self worth.

But I don’t think we were friends then, although we like to tell people we were. I was too shy and awkward and you were too confident and self-assured. Sure, we exchanged occasional smiles, and probably played a few games together, but we were never close. I don’t think we really had the chance to be. We were too different.

I grew up bookish and slightly unsure of myself, though cleverly masked by the insults I carelessly threw at people as a defense mechanism. (Even then, I had an extraordinary talent for insulting people). You, unsurprisingly, grew into a remarkably adept social butterfly.

I remember you coming out of the closet at the ripe, old age of twelve. Which was funny because by the time you came to terms with who you were as a person, I barely even understood who, or what, I was. I thought it was funny how you managed to shock the school, both teachers and students alike, into accepting, albeit grudgingly, who you were. I don’t know how you felt about it, but it was quite an achievement.

I remember feeling envious. I couldn’t admit it at the time, or I didn’t want to, because to admit it meant accepting a few truths about myself I wasn’t ready to accept yet.  And I guess, looking back, I realize that that was precisely what I felt envious about. Your ability to both care and not care. And your ability to be happy.

It’s not as easy as it sounds, choosing to be happy. Sometimes it requires courage of the highest degree.

We became close at a difficult time in my life. I was struggling with bouts of depression, unsure of my place in the world, and you were, well, still yourself: confident, sure and happy. Exactly as you have always been.

I remember us spending long hours discussing, of all things, Foucault and Derrida and Marx and culture and politics and life, our raised voices disturbing what was otherwise a quiet and peaceful night. We rarely agreed on anything, except on the fact that we both enjoyed a healthy debate.

Our discussions turned into a weekly tradition; something I looked forward to at the end of an otherwise mundane week. And, in the course of those countless conversations, what casual relationship we had turned into a true and honest friendship.

But, like everything else in the world, we changed. Our values diverged, and what connection we had weakened over the years. The changes were minute, and the disintegration of our relationship barely perceptible, but it was happening, and it was very difficult for either of us to do anything about it.

Until that one moment our friendship was tested, and laid bare its weaknesses, and broke.

I can’t blame you for your decisions. They are yours, and as always, you cannot help but be who you are all the time. I hold no grudge. Know that I am still here, and that I am still your friend.

I wish things were simpler, where whatever problems we had could be solved by the simple act of picking up a phone and communicating. But our lives refuse to bend to my wishes don’t they?

I still hope that when the time is right for the both of us, when things settle down, or whatever complication we managed to make in our lives sort itself out, we can just continue the friendship right where we left off. But even if the time never becomes right, where silence and distance completely erase the possibility of the friendship we should have had, I can at least take comfort in the fact that in the twenty odd years I’ve spent in this life, I’ve met someone who left a huge indelible mark in my heart.

Relationships

The worst thing about growing up is how complicated things can be. I miss those days when I can honestly say when something is wrong or right, without having to consider the nuances of the situation. Things are just too complicated right now, and for the first time, my instinct is telling me to shut up. Which is weird, since I rarely shut up.

I'm sorry for not blogging in a long long time. Work is keeping me insanely busy with 12-hour workdays, skipped lunches, and general insanity. That's another bad thing about growing up: the fact that you have to work to actually live. Where's that millionaire benefactor when you need one?

Don't get me wrong, I actually like my job. The only problem, well, from my perspective at least, is that it is the type of job that forces you to choose between it and your personal life. The only way I can be good at it is to practically forego everything else. Which is what seems to be happening lately. I wish I knew what to do.

And loyalties. My god, I hate being stuck in the difficult situation of having to choose between two friends. Where choosing to do the right thing for one means being disloyal to the other. I'm starting to understand why doing the right thing sometimes sucks. Sometimes, it could cost you a valuable friendship.

Things will work out I'm sure. They always do. I'm just worried that by the time the dust settles, I would see a landscape that is strange and unfamiliar. 

Actually, that's how things feel now. So really, how bad could things get?

Please don't answer that. That was rhetorical. I know things could actually get worse. Stupid life.

Indecision

I sometimes feel like my life is directed by a series of circumstances defined by inaction and indecision. You know how there are people who take charge of their lives, who grab the bull by the horns so to speak, and who force things to happen? I used to think I was one of those people, except upon further reflection, I fear that I'm not. I have the distinct feeling I've just been floating along, mindlessly doing nothing and letting the currents in my life take me to wherever it will take me.

What' s scary is that I sometimes think that I don't do it "mindlessly". Sometimes, when forced to choose between two things, I decide to create another option, which is to not choose at all. Which I admit is a form of cowardice on my part, because I know that to decide actively requires me to assume the consequences of that decision, and perhaps I fool my brain into thinking that by choosing not to choose, then perhaps the end result will be that there will be no consequences.

Except that I know that there will be consequences. But deciding not to choose, at least for now, gives me some comfort that, maybe, the consequences of my inaction can be suspended too.

Only I'm not stupid enough to believe that. So I knowingly choose to be ignorant, which is the worst form of cowardice on my part. Not only am I afraid of the consequences of whatever decision I will make, and therefor choose not to decide, but I knowingly reject the knowledge that I already have of the consequences of my inaction. 

There are layers of foolishness here, I know. But I hope to have enough courage soon to defeat my fears.

Photo taken here.

Three Stories

“I left him because he was cheating on me.”

“How did you find out?”

 “You just know.  It's...I can't explain it. The way he seems so fidgety when I catch him surfing on a computer late at night, or when he tells me he's visiting his parents and it felt like a lie, or when he's just uneasy around restaurants or public areas. A lot of small things really. They just added up into this one huge thing. Then I checked his phone messages and found out for real.”

“What did you do?”

“I told the guard at my apartment building to never let him up. I then called him and told him I was breaking up with him because he was unfaithful.”

“And?”

“Well, it’s not as easy as I’m telling it right now. It hurt like hell at the time, and I had to grieve in my own private way, but I needed to do it you know? For myself? In the end, I realized my dignity was more important.”

***

“When I found out about it, I honestly didn’t know what to do. At some point, I felt like I wanted to kill him.”

“But why did you stay?”

“Because I love him. And he reassured me that at the end of the day, I was still the most important person in his life. The others were just flings. Random encounters.”

“You believed him?”

“Well, yes. I know it sounds silly, but I really do.”

“Ok, I respect that, but how do you feel?”

“I feel hurt a lot of times, especially when I don’t know where he is, or why he isn’t texting, or when he says he’s out with friends. I also feel paranoid and insecure. But I love him, and the idea of him leaving me…I can’t stand it.”

“How about the idea of you leaving him?”

“Honestly, it never even crossed my mind. Well, maybe once or twice. But mostly, I just feel grateful he’s there.”

***

“Cheating is only cheating if it is against the rules in the first place. When you both accept the idea that it is impossible to be in a monogamous relationship in the first place, without either or both parties straying at some point, then the easier everything will be. You just have to make allowances really.”

“That seems awfully cynical.”

“And true. Honestly, for me, I wouldn’t really mind if my husband strayed as long as: a) I never catch him, b) he doesn’t get some girl pregnant, and c) he doesn’t come home with some venereal disease and infects me with it. Ignorance is key.”

“I think you just broke through the cynicism meter here.”

“Well, guess what? I’m not kidding. And frankly, I’m content and generally happy. At the end of the day, it works for me. And really, that's all anyone can ask for in a relationship. Whatever works for you.”

“But what if you find out?”

“Well, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that never happens.”

Photo taken here.

This Way, Not That

I remember when we were in the car, and you were talking about your son, and how you wanted him to be this way and not that. What “this way” or “that” was, you never fully explained, but I remember you emphasizing your point with a flimsy flip of your right hand. And that flip spoke volumes to me, because in that one small gesture, you summarized what it meant to be gay.

And I remember thinking how difficult it must have been for you to even begin to talk to me about this, considering how awfully hard it was for you to even say the word. Instead you flipped your hand again and again, knowing that I would know what you meant, because I knew where you were coming from, and because I knew your son.

Maybe you felt that speaking the words out loud would make them true. And you wanted so much for them not to be.

And I didn’t know what to say, or whether I should lie.

And so I said nothing. I wanted to hold your hand to say that your son would be more than fine, he is a decent, loving, caring human being who would no doubt grow up to become a fine adult, and this, this word you couldn’t even say, it doesn’t matter precisely because it doesn’t matter. In the general scheme of things, it is the least important of the attributes your son has been so blessed to be with.

And I wanted to say that I know that you are only worried about him, because he lives in a world that would no doubt think of him as abnormal, for a small trait that differentiates him from everyone else. And that your worry only underscores your love, but that it doesn’t change the fact that your son would rather have your support because, at the end of day, it is only when he accepts himself, and especially when the people he loves accepts him for who he is, will he be truly happy.

And I wanted to comfort you and tell you that you did not bring your son up wrong, he is a beautiful person, and that he is simply who he was meant to be. You could not have loved him more. 

Instead I remained silent, because, still, I didn’t know what to say, or whether I should lie.

And so we continued traveling, my thoughts a blur, imagining you in your corner, worried about your son in the inadequate and sometimes terrifying world he has to live in.

Photo taken here.

Loneliness

I sit alone in a coffee shop, eating my way through a warm cinnamon bun with cream cheese frosting dripping along its top. I watch the steam rising from my macchiatto, my eyes passing over the sweet caramel crisscrossing the foamy milk froth layered on top of the espresso. My mind is taken over by random thoughts, and in a few quick seconds, my features run the gamut of emotions usually reserved for exciting conversations. Flights of fancy or existential musings, my brain has decided to think wildly and freely, and the end result of my intellectual meanderings are usually as unusual as they are surprising.

I do not understand why some people can be so scared of those few instances they find themselves alone. Perhaps, in that rare moment where their thoughts are allowed free rein; where, in a way, they are forced to engage in a "conversation" with themselves, they realize something they do not want to admit. Maybe, for them, loneliness is an enemy they must overcome with overflowing scheduled commitments, boundless enthusiasm for random activities, and countless, countless acquaintances and friends. Maybe, in that small period of loneliness, they realize how afraid they are of the darkness it represents.

But I've learned, even at a young age, that the darkness can be a friend. It isn't always, and sometimes the darkness can consume you and bury you in its endlessness. But I've always relished those moments when I can engage in those thoughts we usually can not access unless we have dealt with each of our own individual brands of loneliness. Through that darkness, I've discovered pain, and sadness, and beauty. It is like a patient lover, always waiting to accept me in its embrace.

Photo taken here.

Body Issues

When I was a teenager, I hated how I look. I hated how my hair seemed so straight and wiry, how high my forehead was, how far apart my eyes were. I especially hated my nose, which I thought seemed so flat and squishy. I looked a lot like my father, and I sometimes resented the fact that I inherited a lot of his physical attributes. 

So, like any other kid going through puberty, I had a lot of insecurities. And the fact that my skin decided at that particular point to break out with a gajillion pimples just seemed like extra unnecessary crap piled onto an already steaming mound known as my life. 

I'm not sure when I decided to embrace my features. But I remember a particular moment, when I was walking by a mirror one day, and noticing the slight hunch of my shoulders, and the way I seemed to drag my footsteps. I remember thinking that just because I hated the way I look, it didn't mean I actually had to look like I was the most hatefully ugly creature in the world. So I made a mental note to make sure I stand a little straighter, and I carry myself as if I thought I was gorgeous. It took a while before I got used to pushing my shoulders back, and carrying my feet, but at some point I learned how to, and that was when I changed. 

The change was mostly internal I think. A shifting of perspective. Days where I looked at the mirror and thought, "I don't look so bad". Or moments when I felt that I totally rocked. My confidence grew, and I started really liking how I looked, how different I seemed to be from any other person. It was then that I realized I actually liked being me, and that I really had nothing to complain about. 

Then one day, I realized how lucky I was. I wasn't perfect, but the imperfections made me feel more, well, me. And I loved the idea that, maybe, I was created exactly as I should be. 

Photo taken here.