Honesty Is Not Forgotten

OK. Writing in first person is a bit weird. I infuse too much of myself in the character, and it's not really a very good thing. Still. I needed the therapy. The catharsis it gives me. And parts of it happened before anyway... Maybe I'm just dredging up too much stale emotions in me. Or maybe I just want to write and write and write and it wouldn't matter if I'm telling something about myself or someone made up or if I'm lying. (Does it matter anyway if I am?)

POINT IS, I want to keep myself sane. I want to work out who I am with what I write. Bug said I was greedy? Maybe I am. Let me work it out with my writings.

And so begins another one...

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IT WAS RIGHT, WHAT he said. That he doesn’t know anything about the guys he’s gone out with. Fine, the longest relationship he’s had was like, four months, and FINE, those guys have mostly just been S-Teen hypocritical queens, but that doesn’t exactly cover everything that needs to be covered (so to speak) about someone. Heck, even a whole lifetime isn’t enough, when one thinks about it.

And I guess in a way, I understood that. It’s not even about the uncapped ballpoint pens and the bubblegum wrappers and the waking up in the middle of every goddamned night because of a perpetually nocturnal cold virus attack, NO, it’s not about the LITTLE things which SUPPOSEDLY matter. It’s about the BIGGER PICTURE in this person’s tapestry of life. And I can’t help but think I’m just a passing thread in his tapestry. It just so happened that our threads needed to intertwine at this point, linger, but will eventually, inevitably, and inexorably have to separate sooner THAN later.

That was what he meant, I so knew it. Having someone see the bigger picture as you do. And if not that, then it’s probably a close enough carbon copy. That feeling –- which makes you think that whatever threads his tapestry is made of, yours and his are the same. That feeling of familiarity, of coming home. That is what he wants.

And that’s what I want too.

Funny thing was I felt it in him. Although I can’t be sure. If it’s not then it’s a hell of a lot close. Bottomline is, it’s real. I was sure he felt that as well, subtle as though its passage may be. And as a matter of fact, he never failed to tell me promptly that he did. It caught me off guard to say the least.

He never missed a beat. Telling me whatever was on his mind, pre-empting it with, “I know I shouldn’t tell you this,” or “I’m making things easy for you, but.” If I didn’t resist the urge to slap him everytime he says something like that, he would probably have a face swollen as someone who stumbled face first on a beehive. (Or we could have had hot, S & M sex. Whateva.)

Anyway, that was it. Honesty. Too much of it. Not that I was complaining at that time. I thought it was kind of nice. And I guess I was the same with him too. It was odd sort of, but still pleasant, getting to sleep at night without having to bother thinking of the used-to-be-thick mists and the ambiguity between me and a guy I was feeling good vibes with. He even told me that unexplainably, it was only with me he felt really SOBER. Yeah, that was the exact word. He felt like he was totally himself. That it would be next to IMPOSSIBLE had he tried to lie or pretend to be someone else -– something he usually, automatically reverts to being whenever he’s dating. Not so with me, he says. And there was light. And it was good. “Clear,” sang the Hungry Young Poets, “like a brightly-lit crystal chandelier...” And for a time, the nights were calm and silent...

What I forgot, was that the next line of that song was, “... there’s no tomorrow.”

So, after a while, and as I was expecting, guiltily at the back of my head, the honesty got a bit out of hand. Whenever we talk, it started to sound like a Focus Group Discussion. Still. I refused to think it won’t work. (I do believe in fairies, I remember thinking to myself.) But in spite of all the mental and emotional machinations I tried to bolster myself with, I knew the relationship was beginning its descent. And I was slowly beginning to drift to that long list of his, of guys he dated but gradually became friends with.

I panicked. So I used my last Honesty Card. I told him I was afraid of being the next one to fall on that list.

And then HE panicked. So he WITHDREW his Honesty Card and dealt the I’m Sorry Card.

That was the end of it. And I’d rather be out of his life than be on that list.

I would probably forget him, as I’ve forgotten a lot of spectacular guys who came my way before. And I won’t remember his name, or his face, or his voice, or the way I watched the silhouette of his chest go slowly up and down like clockwork while he was sleeping that night I spent at his place. I would probably forget the smell of his car or the songs he played, heck I might even forget the look of suppressed shock on his mother’s face the second he told her I was sleeping over, priceless though as it was...

But I won’t forget the feeling of total honesty. Of coming home. Of knowing that I knew someone, totally, inside out, without pretense and without compromise. And that feeling gives me a sense of victory. Something I know I could draw on when I feel like I suddenly have no idea who the person I’m holding hands with. Like right now.

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PS: The threads this tapestry my life is composed of... it’s a hella difficult stitching with. But if one steps back and looks at it, it’s not so bad. I can’t wait to see until it’s finished...