On Oscar
November 10
I met you, and it was all very fast. The first time I saw your face was separated from the last by a period of time so brief that I can barely understand the change it brought to my life. I wouldn’t have known that one could feel so deeply understood and connected by someone whose existence had been in sight for just a couple of hours — and that’s precisely just what was needed; a few hours.
I now know the taste of your lips, yes I do, and never is taking that away from me; a sweetness I can only barely describe through the fault of my memory of such a charged moment. Many images fill my head when I recall your beautiful eyes looking straight into mine in a night that became ours so inadvertedly. I kissed you and I loved it.
I don’t believe in love as something that can be quickly experienced, instead I believe it to stem from the amalgamation of many moments and interactions between people. Love stems from joined living, and that is why I find it confusing to name what I feel for you, love or otherwise. One ought to live a lot to love somebody, and despite that all-things us can be fitted in a couple of hours, I feel like we’ve lived through so much, together. Oscar I don’t know if I love you, and being frank, I barely know what love is, but be clear of something; I needn’t know what I feel for you, I need only feel it. It feels great to remember your face rubbing against mine, and it overwhelms me to remember your tongue discovering my mouth. Can’t there only be so much beauty?
I know there’s a chance we’ll never meet each other again — I’m painfully aware of it — , as so I know that there’s a chance that we’ll never be together romantically, and although I can understand it, I can’t get myself to forgive the life we could’ve had versus the life we might have. Was it I mistake? I don’t think so. Will it still hurt? I believe so. My gaze into your eyes, I feel, switched something inside me, and notwithstanding that you could be more of a fabrication of what I want you to be, and a projection of my inner needs, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same beyond you; a clear distinction of a me before and after you.
When I think of you, I think of a version of me that is simply happy, and I miss it.
Oscar, I gave you a jacket, not because I am concerned of your access to winter garments, but because I want to believe that I am still there with you, hugging you and missing you, as I feel your self besides in more ways than I can explain and — more importantly—than I can control.
I can now only anticipate a life we can live together, walking on the streets of Mexico City, Madrid, London, San Francisco, or New York. A life so deeply infected by freedom and a surrendering to these feelings, feels very good and hopeful, but also weirdly wrong. I cannot but hope to see your face again and so feel your lips against mine.
November 11
I find it a bit odd, today, to think about what happened when we met. (I also find it funny that I can’t say “when we first met”, for we only met once.) Right now I look back and find myself very amused by the sheer amount of feelings I experienced yesterday just thinking back on you. Now it seems all a bit silly — not gonna lie — , but still I think it was very genuine and human.
Again, and being clear, calling this love would be a bit of a misnomer, but then again, most things that end up being called love could be cynically deemed misnomers. Love isn’t as much a feeling as it is a choice, and the choice is about choosing the label as applied to what you’re feeling. For me, I think it would be pretty logical to call love what I felt yesterday. These memories where the embodiment of a lot of very beautiful things. I never thought I could reach a state of full calmness and fulfillment so fast as when you held me tight in bed. I don’t think I even remembered your name at that moment — sure, you were “the guy” — , but I didn’t need to, I just felt safe, and feelings don’t need to pay any credits to logic.
Will I be fine if we never are? Sure. Would I like for us to be? Depends on how much my perception of you ends up matching the reality of you. I keep thinking of you, so far it’s been a match. And by match I don’t mean that you “meet my requirements” in the frivolous sense of the sentence, but rather that you’re nice and sensible. It is a matter of pleasurable conversations.
The amount of luck I had in finding prove greatly in the long run, or you could just be another bump on the road of the people I’ve met, still I don’t regret having met you, and not because I don’t regret, but because you were, in the purest way, very nice to be around.
Love has a nasty habit of disappearing overnight,
said The Beatles, and I cannot help but feel like that is true in many ways, but I think the better description would be morphing. Any given love is subject to the chemical composition of our mind at that moment, but disappearance is not the word to best describes how it changes. It becomes less intense, but — at least in my case — more mature. Like the transition of a wood fire that goes from flamboyantly burning the little sticks and tinder, to burning the thick logs.
I’m okay loving you, even if I don’t know what love is.
November 12
Through the night of yesterday and the few minutes it’s been in this day, I’ve come to realize that you’ve not felt what I’ve been feeling up until now. Admittedly, it has all happened very fast, and in retrospective my delusion and naïveté becomes clear, but I am not wrong for surrendering to those things that make life worth living; I’ve chosen to believe that. Now that this is over, I find it ever more strange to call it love upon looking back. Maybe it was just an infatuation, a passion. I feel emptier now. I’m not sure exactly what I am mourning, but I am sure of this feeling of mourn, I’ve seen it before; a deep melancholy that infects everything around me, some untold despair that is injected into the very fabric of reality: the chairs, my desk, this machine, and everything else. The memory of you stands in front of me, ever fading yet ever more powerful.
Yesterday you sent me an audio message, before ghosting me. Upon listening to it I became aroused and taken back. It was just a few seconds of your voice, enough to take me back to your bedside, right into your arms; that childish voice of you. Who would’ve known when I first met you, that you’d be so much for me, or that I’d make so much of you. You never were the person in my mind, rather you existed as a representation of the things I needed besides me. You were useful, but maybe too much to be practical. But then again, no one is ever the person in our minds, albeit most of the times that’s not a problem — not like this.
I feel hurt and I see no one to blame. I know I need no one, or at least that I shouldn’t, yet I find it hard not blame it all; knowing I am the only one to blame for this maybe burns more achingly than the pain in question. Still, Oscar, I’d want you to know that the few seconds in your arms built an eternity for me, and I would never trade them for anything. I couldn’t give you anything but love, and so I did, and I think that became sickening for you, maybe that’s something I wish I would’ve done different. My image of you was beyond reality from the very, but it’s you, and even me.
Somewhat inside me tells me to simply forget you. It should be easy to take all these thoughts about you and simply ignore them, let them die off, but then it might just be a bit too easy in the short run, to a very short-lived stability and simulation of happiness.
I guess I signed up for this when I didn’t stop you from holding me close to you; yeah, I guess this all happened because I wanted so, and even this, for how easy would it be to blame myself only for the pretty parts. No. I choose to live this through, knowing I did this to myself as it’s been with everything else. What I loved you for was mine, and what I’ll miss you for is also mine, but Oscar, please, forever keep my jacket.
I can’t help but feel like I pushed you. And I am sorry for this.
