This writing is a tricky one, because Yanny doesn’t read. And yet I must not exhaust this subject by writing it, because I plan to talk this out: She will be excused for toilet, and I would excuse myself too, after her. In corridors of vibrantly colored walls, the authentic conversations would unfold, the ones that bring friends closer. Mending peculiar jags like clays.
Is this an over-reaction? I mentioned her as your girl in a group chat, and you responded, “What my girl?” And I think of the day you mentioned how love matters always complicate your little social circles. You see, I lived on extremities, I still do. In every friendship it feels like standing in a crowded room. In every mindless conversations we recount our previous reactions to life matters, and mine always stand out, reinforcing my special little labels: The slut, the bitch, the hippie, the nihilist. In that crowded room I occupy the peculiar corners, I look around, and very often a have a stone cold wall on my side. It is new and exciting to see someone being worse and more reckless at love than I am. Nor I ever considered myself very messy in love. It was a simple delight to lean an elbow against the corner, look down, and see a mischievous shadow being there because she wills it, replacing the walls as my companion.
In your own metaphorical void a vinyl occasionally puts Bad At Love on playing, sometimes it repeats as a romanticized curse. And who am I to dance into this little storm just because it seems like fun dance floor? Or maybe you enjoy it, and the self-fulfilling prophecy bends this wire into a loop. Or maybe I have never occurred to you as a matter. The effects of this sinking stone went unnoticed in your pond vibrating with constant ripples. You don’t even think about us.
My side of the narrative is this. Selfishly speaking, there is something impotent about not kissing girls: I am in a musical. My girlfriend in the play had no chemistry with me, which is completely fine, but somehow I took that as an insult. I tend to achieve, to prove that something did not happen to me not because I cannot do it, but because I do not want it. I needed to prove myself. Richard Mason said men turn to women when they are in need of confidence, and I think there is some truth in it. I kissed you in the name of drama, said I needed the thrill of being found out; but I do think of your side of the equation more than you might have imagined. Patterns reassure us, maybe it makes sense to you that your behavior triggers moral accusations. But what if you walk into my land where there hardly lays any restricted zones and mines? Would you dance, or garden, or nap, or scream or sing if there is no bounds? Or do you merely prefer rules and the guilt of violating them? But I did not want to speak of what I wished and almost imagined to offer.
But what we have here is precious, the squad. And I am not the type to add to fishy air, or to prefer drama over genuine relationships. I do enjoy this unmentioned cloud of ambiguity about ambiguities; but what if you want this crowd as a clarity among the love-wrecked social circles? What if this adds to your list of unsettling doubts? Maybe it was a stupid mistake, against that shaky gate of graffiti and torn advertisement notices. But that night I return home in calming peace, and did my wash up, and slept sound. Somehow girls give me the sanity that guys can’t, like I belong in my own skin.
You see, I am not good at girls. This is my ring of self-fulfilling prophecy.
Steno Notes 