When I was younger, I've dreamt of love as pure and enduring as Carl and Ellie's. But as I experienced it for the first time, my insatiable appetite for all its frivolities kept me searching for more. It was all about the spark and the magic. Then I was caught up with reality. I've become too self-aware that the spark is just a spark and the magic is just a spell. They all faded right through my eyes, sometimes as feebly as the fireflies. I grew tired of it. I stopped yearning for it. But in those unguarded moments, when you least expected to see it, much worse in an animated movie, that gripping display of pure unadulterated love made me sob profusely. The loneliness was magnified exponentially, it became unbearable. Then I would try to "remember when," but I could not access anything worthwhile. My memories failed me. Sometimes a song is all it takes to launch me into full-blown melancholia. It's cruel.
October 28, 2014
October 8, 2014
Coffee shops have been my refuge, offering a solitary crib in its nook and cranny as I either transfix into my current bibliotherapy - the oftentimes funny but mostly poignant memoirs of gay men that came before me - or eavesdrop on the melodrama of its patron's predicament on work, love or whatever consumes them at the moment. Sometimes it turns out to be a fresh form of entertainment. Different personalities and discourses lingering through the ambient interiors and symphonious acoustics almost make up for the humdrum of my "plus-one"-less coffee table situation. These places are silent witnesses of the kaleidescope unfolding of colorful caricatures of the cosmopolitan. It gives me a kindred sense of belongingness no matter how seemingly detached I am with human connection.