It's Not Much of a Life

It's all so perfect. Yet circumstances can make it even more painful that it is now. It's not up to me. It's not up to you. It's not up to us. It is our lives-- yes it is-- but it is not in our hands, what we can or cannot do. So then, is it still our own lives when the choices are not up to us, when we are powerless against power, when our hopes and dreams are taken away from us right before our very eyes as we are held down by weighted chains of the perspectives of other people? If it is, then it is not much of a life we are living. I never said we were living very much to begin with.

So what if warm blood flows through these veins? So what if I breathe in this filthy air through my nostrils every second of my so-called life? So what if my heart beats and my brain works without fail each and every moment? What use am I, what is the point of my existence if I am told what is right and wrong, what I should and should not do, the way I should and should not behave, who I should and should not love. Why am I still alive when even my right to trust and love is stripped away from me.

You believe in God. You love jesus. You thank Him everyday.

You think it's wrong to be gay. You think it's wrong of me to be in love with him. You think it's wrong of me to even be talking to him. You don't trust. You don't believe. Yet you are a believer. If it is possible for you to love something which existence you cannot prove, then why is it not possible for me to love someone who I am sure of?

It is unfair.

Nobody said the world was fair anyway.

Disappointment overwhelms me.
I am upset-- that much I know.
It comes from the insecurities which I own, the fear of losing a seemingly strong yet fragile relationship which lives on waves.

The day our gap is finally closed is but weeks away.
Yet it is not my choice to make, whether or not our hands touch.
In my mind, things are laid out perfectly: you are holding me close to you, whispering into my ears how you would never let me go while a teardrop escapes from the corner of my eye and a rivulet trickles silently down my cheek in the middle of the night.

In the dim lamp light we would lie,
Staring at the plain ceiling the whole night.
Admiring the warmth and the surreality of each ticking second,
Appreciating the silence of each other's company.
...
It is all possible,
Yet it is too much to ask for.
Close to reality it may be,
but do not forget, my love,
it is not up to me.

As upset as we are,
Nothing will change.
Young and foolish they may say,
Inexperienced and naive they may scorn;
Forever indeed I shall never be granted
The gift bestowed to the oldest of us all:
Of freedom, of rebellion, of trust.

You know what?

I give up.