what sucks?

Why did I ever allow myself to go back in Planet Romeo with a skeleton inside my closet?

I’m back in that freaking arena of gay men looking for whatever sorts of desires they want. It never fails to impress in me that that site looks like a catalogue of briefs with snapshots of torsos.

I know I’ll be going in for a deep turmoil inside me because I may forge quite a good conversations with interesting people in there when at the back of my head, my skeleton is actually poking its finger at me.

Yes. I decided not to disclose my status in my profile because I’m not all too prepared for the backlash of stigma.

I’ve just been there for a week and there were few too good interesting people who aren’t as dickhead as they look like.

There’s this one guy whom I even actually almost “liked”—screw this, I like him—because we were in every sort of aspect compatible: height, weight, lifestyle, philosophy, career direction, and what-have-yous. For some reason, he just deleted his profile so that was it. It was a blessing in disguise that he extinguished himself from that online buffet of flesh because if things had gone more serious, I don’t know how I would take it into myself come that day that I sit before him, dating while a non-existent skeleton is poking my head’s crown.

And then there’s this college student who really can stir a great exchange of dialogue. We are still talking up until these days and only God knows how things will go. I know though that I have to keep my emotions and hormones in check. I just can’t like him that much.

Then, even if I didn’t disclose on my profile that I am a pusit, I actually had the guts to reveal my status to a fellow positive Romeo.

I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. But it’s true that I felt a bit alone for the past few months that I decided to push my luck again in PR.

I told this to a friend. The first thing she said, “Positive din ba silang lahat doon?” Obviously, Ms. Friend is clueless.

It’s an innocent question but it stabbed me to death. Her question seemed to place on my shoulder the responsibility that I have to be a part of arresting the rising HIV figure. I took her lead and now I’m wondering if I still must continue my presence there.

I wonder in the first place why I’m lonely? I’m not usually like that. I’m fine being myself but I think there really is some truth between isolation versus intimacy. Erik Erikson is right. And fuck him.

That’s the hard part of relating with someone who isn’t a fellow PLHIV. Guilt will eat you alive by the time emotions are invested and things are getting a bit sugary.

It sucks.

midnight musing

Yesterday, in the middle of the night, my Muse suddenly descended from her throne and visited me at the most painful hour of the day. I should have gone to sleep but the words were like tap flowing freely from my head out to my ear.

I suppose Proust is right. The body is easy to perish when the thought arrives so hold a pen and rein over the words that may soon wither.

So, at 1.30 in the morning, when the sands of Sleep Master should have carried me off to Dreamland, I was still wide awake and religiously tapping the keys of my phone so that my fingers would catch up with my thoughts.

I saved the note as "Love letter." Self-explanatory.

In this day and age, I still long to write someone a love letter. I want to pour my heartfelt and ardent effort of knitting words to profess my love for someone, things that I want to tell him but couldn't lest our cheeks burn in bashfulness like charcoals thrown and smoldering in the fire. With only a pen in my hand and a paper to immortalize my testimony of blinded lovestruck adoration--devoid of any audience that may ricochet me back to my quarter of deplorable self-esteem--I am talking to no one but at the same time to him. Let my love letter be my lark at day, singing solo a hymn of love without ever fearing my lover's conscious eyes.

Pardon the saccharine tone. Garcia Marquez is my latest influence as of late. But true enough, nothing sane comes immediately before and after two o'clock in the morning.