Maybe it is better, friend (do you mind if I refer to you as such? I mean, you are reading about some fairly intimate stuff), if I begin with a good time. I do not want to give the impression that I believe my entire life is a pool of sadness I can wallow in - no, I'm aware that it isn't. There was one night, over a year ago now. A night I cherished enough to write about, which maybe isn't a rare event, but is special nonetheless. It was a good, no, a safe night.
The night was spent at a friend's house (do forgive me, but for privacy, we will call him Al). The day had not been a good one, this was a time when any time spent at home was simply a nightmare. That is for another time, though.
We just talked, Al and I. About freedom, music, humanity, about art and perfection. It was perfection. And we just lay there afterwards; listening. Feeling the soft pulses and rhythms of each song and piece, and really, truly, hearing every emotion each work had to offer.
And maybe if I were to focus on times like this, times of happiness, or of peace, of safety. Maybe I'll make it. I mean, granted the night was followed by terrible cramps but still. Let's not taint that moment with the before and after. Focus on the good, focus on Al. Focus on anything else.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Diary
RandomI'm just your average teenage guy, and really there's nothing special about me. I mean, sure, I'm trans, and sure, I'm mentally unstable, but other than that I'm probably pretty similar to you.Maybe nothing will come of you reading any of this, you...
