It’s that time of the year again.
Five years ago, I embarked on this journey when we met at a convention center. The hall was big, the room was full, but he chose to be on my team and observed me from afar. There was no sign at all, when Milo took in his brain the clueless words slipped from my tongue and the clumsiness in my manner dealing with logistic work with barely any experience. There was no warning sign when he slowly paced his way into my college life, making my bed dripped in sweat and tears when I had my first proper physical contact with a male, endorsing me on my first backpacking trip ever. And just like that, there was no sign as well when he said his last goodbye.
In 2 years time, 3 years ago, it was once again, during this season, that I thought love had found its way to me again. Ben wasn’t attractive nor sensual, but his balance between geekiness and sarcasm, his Jewish born intelligence and goofiness were hard to ignore. Unlike all the other kids who were too busy engaging in getting drunk, he explored and breathed in and didn’t mind sharing those breath with me. The backpack that I dropped off reaching the thresold of my 20s was picked up again, with him. Again, being clumsy upon stumbling on another chance, juggling between choosing which friendship to break, I turned it into a mess, a could have been.
I was having dinner the other day when a girl friend of mine (whom I wouldn’t mind making a girlfriend if I were straight) mentioned the place. Just the name of the place, one word, and it took me back to this time last year, when love wasn’t a whole up and down, living together experience nor a regret that keeps one toss and turned at night, but was a stab, a betrayal, a seemingly soul mate who fit from head to toe bringing the best heartache in the shortest amount of time possible. Sometimes I imagine George is dead from his brokenness and concealing, like how Heath Ledger is dead, so that I could mourn him more properly, with less hatred and more sympathy. The backpack has finally been dropped, cut off, this time from both sides.
All coming & going in April, they didn’t have such evoking power. It was me who chose to store them there and handle them that power. It’s harder to sleep. Tongue doesn’t taste that well. Cigarette smelled. Negativity it is, but it’s easier living in those feelings again, like it was still fresh, than pretending none has happened, at this time of the year.