I saw ‘Get Real’ yesterday. Again. Despite a truckload of work to do. Knowing fully well I’d regret it later. And here I am, after watching the movie. The ever-increasing work to drown myself into. But no regrets. There are no regrets right now.
I knew I really liked that movie but didn’t know how much till I watched it again. It is a low-budget movie with stellar story and stellar acting. Its reviews include dialogues like “yet another coming-of-age gay movie…” Yet another? I have yet to find one movie that captures the issues it captures. I saw “Brokeback Mountain”: the historical perspective is touching. “Philadelphia”: yawn. It was stiff and mechanical. “Weekend”: I wanted to kill myself to see something so stereotypical in my life; gays ≠ drugs. Period. “Prayers for Bobby”: touched me. But every movie based on LGBT issues I pick up are in some way or the other very different to my reality. “Get Real” was the only movie I could relate with myself. It was the only protagonist who I would like to become one day, some day. It is one of a kind, not “another” coming-of-age movie. There is a reason why a movie which didn’t have much financial standing went on to become a cult among a selected mass of people.
It is a movie of a different time, but it reflects in many senses my current surroundings. Not the loving parents, not the school, not the toilet from where I can pick up strangers but the angst, the itch… it is pretty much universal. It is the urge to just be what one wants to be. I catch myself talking so much because I don’t say what I actually want to. I am sick of being alone. And I have said it many times, I know it, but it still feels bad not to have someone to just hold hands.
I have come to a point where I don’t really care what’s happening in others’ lives. If I don’t get mine, why do they deserve theirs? But I know I am not the only one with skeletons in my closet. I recently discovered a very dear friend of mine has a family member with mental illness. And I feel awkward to tell her that it is okay if she wants to tell me anything. It is cliched and she told me at the time that she wasn’t telling me the full complicated story because she didn’t want to be a fumbling crying mess. I don’t know what to do. It is like we talk but we don’t really. I want to tell her how dear a friend she is to me, but I don’t know how. I am stopping myself from my liberation.
A dysfunctional family damages you in many ways. I thought I had come out hale and hearty but who was I kidding. I am emotionally crippled. Our family doesn’t have a trend of professing love and that is something ingrained into me. People say ‘sorry’ and ‘thanks’ so easily, it used to amaze me at first. But I knew in no time that I was the odd one out. This I have again told here before, but it is my sincere wish to literally cry out loud. Okay not loudly maybe, but crying is what I seriously wish to do some day, one day. I don’t because I can’t. There is no place for it, no time for it, no sense to it. And who knows what would happen if I finally manage to cry. Apart from a wet pillow to hide, there would be many serious implications. Would I become fundamentally changed? I am afraid I would be more susceptible to burst out given that I am already roaming around with a heavy heart. I feel like I would be a Pandora’s Box with my evils out there for the world to see, forever. That just scares me.
It is the thought that I would be naked to the world that scares me. I am gay. But that is not a dark secret. My dark secrets are deeper over which wish I had control of. I hold firm opinions about people I love. I sometimes hate my near and dear ones so much that I am horrified about myself. I am gay but I don’t feel ashamed to talk about it here. But there are still more things that I can’t say even here. To admit them would be a defeat and I am still withholding the dam however I may, however I might.
It feels so poetic to talk in abstract. People get bored easily reading about it; I do. But when I read my posts sometime again in future, I know they would mean so much to me. And that’s why I talk like that. This blog is about me. And that’s why I came back because I couldn’t keep it in any longer. My diary doesn’t feel safe or appropriate even. Here, the ‘clicks’ on the keyboard soothe me; this isn’t good for the Graphology breed, I fear.
There are a ton of things that I want to talk about. But the presence of audience is disturbing. I start ‘talking’ to people. And that takes the edge out of my writing because explanations, good as they are in improving legibility, are not really helpful in talking to me in the least possible words.
I hope ‘Medium’ launches soon enough; there are no likes/comments on it to fight against. The concept is so powerful to me that I am just waiting for my invitation there. Or the end of private beta. Or whatever else they are doing to prevent me from writing in it.
Oh I am back again. It feels so good. Thank you WordPress.