Another day, another defeat of insanity at the hands of logic and meditation. I've locked myself up in my room (except for a run to Target (great place to find refuge in, I know) to escape my mother for a few hours) all day, read A Passage to India, while reading more articles and spending more time being in the norm outside of my brain. After having the same boy on my mind for months on end, my mind is going through a period of cooling off, thinking too much and too little at the same time. How I would love to come out! The fact that there are no other homosexuals in this city besides me (except for those few boys at school and that lesbian who used to talk to me during English - I miss that girl) is comforting. How different can you be before it starts to get lonely? I am used to loneliness; its this goddamn desire that is so annoying. That and the fact my mother loves to turn on her bigotry phase on Sunday mornings - church, and what will she think then? My 'preference' is for lunch again; at night, I am the same old bad son. I need to write, need to write this book, need to write it all away, like some Rimbaud without a tear to shed for my own sexuality . . . that was him, why can't it be me?
At least I am no longer trapped my love for some boy who is under the strain of the heterosexual eye, the dominant dollar pyramid snare. At least I am somewhat free now . . . from myself. My second 'real' desire for a boy has diminished; the first was a disaster. This time he never found out. He is as clueless and happy as ever - and that makes me happy. Now I am back to the joy stage of having a wonderful friend. And I have the first line of a novel . . . now I just need the rest. But what is more important than the first line, eh? Nothing!
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