May 22, 2014
He was finally taking me to that special location he had promised was mind-blowingly beautiful. He was my first kiss, and my first immersion into a reality of open-minded and beautiful abnormality. I loved it there, and at first, I feared how much I was ok with loving it. I feared it enough that for a year afterwards I did not believe that it was ok to love it. The occupation of his being was an artist, and so I picked him up with my car, and he directed me to a hilltop overlooking a picture-frame of simple softness. The softness was of two surreal rolling hills facing each other, both easily merging into a small valley. Autumn had made the entire scene, apart from the dark blue sky, a dry, sandy, yellow. I felt as if we hadn’t just driven up windy roads through the secluded residential area of Eagle Rock, but were sitting on a bench during a spring night inside a cropped frame of Tuscany.
For two hours we sat together, side-by-side, and he, although he did not know it, and I as well, both did not have our minds in any kind of physically magnetic gutter, which, in fact, was otherwise typical for the few times we’ve allowed ourselves to explore our friendship. For two hours we shared stories that had been shared with us as children. We shared experiences of our own and those of others that had, then unknowingly, made an impact on our lives, and in each other’s presence we revealed their significance as we retold and felt them again.
I did not mind crying in front of others. After the age of 15, I fully accepted and liked how sensitive I was, and when the following years made me colder and less easily lacrimal, I would feel relieved that I still had it in me to cry, and would cry freely. I had never cried in front of him (I had not done many things in front of him), and had at times gotten the impression that he wasn’t tolerant of some natural instincts I had, but I didn’t care. Who was he to tolerate or not tolerate me? When I mourned my aunt’s death for the first time with tears in front of him, he placed his hand on my thigh for comfort and admiration for the beauty of the moment. I knew he felt the latter as well. If he didn’t, then I’ve come to know him in a way that was most endearing to me. Acknowledging that, I might have never fully understood his complexity, but I still loved him, and mostly, loved myself with him.
I’ve always wanted to be able to cry without overly cautious people around me asking if I’m ok and what is wrong. The majority of the time that people cry it is because they have finally acknowledged what is wrong and have now to deal with it. What’s left is nothing to be explained. It must be felt, and allowed to drain itself alone (or so I preferred).
He later told me that instead of brushing my leg in encouragement, he would have instinctively wanted to hold me, hug me, and comfort me truly, but hadn’t because he wasn’t sure it was what I wanted. Then, most of all, I hated not being less clear, because there was nothing I would have wanted more at the time.