Small town boys may marry small town boys.

The beauty of age is acquired wisdom.

A child who came to the conclusion people "grow apart, not together".
A child who would become a teenager with a drawn on "supercilious" smile, knowingly appreciative of the situation's progression; years in advance of its happening. A well documented carcinogenic effect of the condition from a varied array of sources. Perhaps responsibility really does lie within where attention is paid, or forced upon children.

And so with age, people learn to wait, and develop their patience.
Knowing that people revolve. As children, desiring to be "happened to" until it happens, at which point we wish it had never happened at all.
It's not realising you've been hurt until the blood forms on the surface of your skin, and calling out for your mother's aid.

It is the young adults who still desire to be "happened to" that I wish to be around. More aware than most, and unhappy at this facet, but at the very least able to converse with over the current matters - that is to say, the next 10 years.
The scales are forever tipping out of favour; involuntary gluttony thrust upon our bodies, trapping our minds on the other side of the scales; persistently rising.

There is happiness in the climbing of trees, and picking of apples in your great grandmother's garden. There hangs from those branches the multiple corpses of the future and all its contents; every moment, interaction and situation swings slowly in the breeze of childhood. Intertwined in one endless second that never seems to end, but does. The useless facts, the twisting of being lovesick and betrayed, the stomach aches of laughter, and the days that didn't seem to occur.
The loss of loss itself, and the bodies fall from the tree instantaneously, like the apples it holds so dear.

And the child who ate all of the apples sees the deathly gaze of the morgue, and comprehends what this gaze entails, and in turn, learns what the tree's residents were keeping to themselves.

This child falls to the ground prematurely, and horribly, in an instant of seemingly forever.

A perfect denial.

It seems that personality, intoxication, and experimentation are not words, but lifestyles. It feels as though I am playing a very thorough game of "Guess Who?": the faces of the past blur and manifest in the novelty. More so; the consequences revel within it. My question: "Can I win?"; what if every face conceals the same identity? Who is there to trust? A fickly self-preservation of face is taking place, and the shock effect of drugs, sadness, sex scandals, fame, suicide and murder no longer have effect. They have become themselves one supreme incessant somnolence. I believe the players have forgotten who indeed they are playing, and I have the tendency to catch them when they slip.

I witness people caught up in identity; struggling to find, or struggling to maintain. What is this struggle in aid of? I find myself playing the game with great intent. Yet still, I do not lie about my smile - I have no perfect denial.

My desires might include wishing I had known you for my entire life, to reminisce not only of our time together, but of that before us and the world as it is now. To have known something blissful; quiet, and altogether subtle and incorrupt.
When smiles were smiles, and tears were tears. I do not want glass emotion.

The generation is different; less involved than the apathetic - the apathetic were non-caring about something, and from this non-caring about something, nothingness in the minds of the living was bore. There is a world where the sick are prescribed an identity; where the less abled are looked upon, and helped. The retard struggles, and so too do we; struggle to understand who we are, where we are, if we are - the pure frustration and anger that spews from non-understanding, and being a human, injured fervently and with no diagnosis available. The classification of intelligence and emotion as feverishly undesirable, we might as well gag our mouths, plug our noses, block our ears, stitch our eyes, and numb our hearts with icicles.

It's so perfect.

Under every homosexual is a pair of Calvin Klein's.

I began to question the feelings I had been so sure of; the anger I held, and its source. I became very aware that the anger was not because of the bad we had shared, but because of the good, and their demise. I had never felt so loved before and I hated him because of it. I had entered the dearest light of humanity and no longer held my shadow - because someone else had taken it from me. It had belonged to another person.

As I gazed out from the Waterloo line train from Reading to Clapham Junction I dissipated into a fluid and felt myself extend out into new cracks and grooves in the flooring of my thoughts. The man opposite me looked with some confusion as I typed a message into my phone that would never be read. I thought back to how now 5 years ago I used to travel on this route for myself, and nobody else.
It became apparent in an instant that each of us are born with death from the day we are given life. We must hold it and carry it wherever we go until we see it manifest.

Then, the burdens of life and the delicate balance between trust and self-defence emerged. How a person must be open enough to talk but never reveal the "worst" of themselves.

"I love you, SO much". Before leaving Reading I gave this utterance loudly, and upon reflection realised I had the same capabilities as those around me. I grasped the concept of a seemingly inhuman human loving behind closed doors.
There are things unshared by all people until they are unable to present these insecurities and moments they performed. We're born inside death and carry it throughout life until we bestow this gift unto those around us. The possibility of regret is too intense, just as the possibility of hurt is. So where do we find the balance?

Just recently I have noticed the straight community commenting on the gay community; noting the things I resent, and so the horrors of the promiscuity and inability to enter or retain a healthy relationship become somewhat of an apparent "fact".
The curious yet accurate hesitant assumptions of the gay community when I was 17 years old in London are now more of a truth than ever.
Are we destined to conceal a pair of Calvin Klein's; displaying only the brand name, or will we ever surpass this lonely lifestyle?

I do wonder if James's friend was correct.
I wonder if my wonderings have been correct for all of this time.
Will there come a point where things are happier? When I can be honest with another, and for them to reciprocate. No ties, no board games, or hidden cards up designer sleeves.

This next year is going to be interesting.