♂ Dakaretai Otoko 1-i Ni Odosarete Imasu | May 18, 2020 (2:09am) ♂

Beyond repair

“Words don’t come out when you’re hurt that deeply.”

— Haruki Murakami

i wonder what it would be like to see snow for the first time in your life -n

You are truly beautiful. Yes, you are.

And you are not even real. It's a sweetness in the air, an old yet new fleeting image from a forgotten memory, a breathtaking instant and fast beat skipped, a painful sensation longing to rest in my body forever. This cruel desire is killing me slowly, because I will never know if it loves me back. Even if it did, I'd be lost in myself too much to care or notice.

This eternal melody created by my imagination is winning the game, but I won't lose either.

I would never have dreamed this. Yet I discover mysefl dreaming it constantly, when the sudden urge appears. While my world is shattering, as I try to ignore it. What are you, spirit? Why do you keep appearing near me? Too close. Too real.

I am afraid.

Is it real, my desires, or is it mere envy? Is it possibly both?

Don't answer me, not today, not tomorrow.

Because I want to keep dreaming you just a little more.

friend: tell him you like him!

me, a gay disaster:

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My child is autistic. He doesn’t do well with change. Even little things that would be meaningless to most people.

For example, his hairbrush was getting old and worn. He had chewed the end of it. The cats had chewed some bristles. It was dirty and dusty. But I didn’t say anything. Because it’s his hairbrush.

Finally, he said he thinks it’s time for a new brush. Ok, I say, we’ll put it on the shopping list, and get one next time we’re in town.

So we go to town and we go to the store. There are many hairbrushes to choose from. He picks one and they even have it in his favorite color. We buy it, take it home, and remove the packaging.

I go to put it on the shelf where the old hairbrush is. Can we throw out the old one, I ask.

That’s when he stops. That’s when he freezes and gets a momentary look of panic on his face. Throw out the old one? That hadn’t occurred to him.

Because here’s the thing. Hair brushing is a part of his morning routine. And not just hair brushing, but hair brushing with that particular brush. To most people, the act of hair brushing is the routine, but not the brush itself. The objects are interchangeable. But not to my child. Not to someone with autism. The brush itself is just as important as the act of brushing.

So I take a breath. I put the old brush down. Think about it, I say. Let me know tomorrow what you want to do with this brush.

He decides. He realizes keeping an old hairbrush is not necessary. But it’s still important to him. So he asks if I can cut off one bristle. To keep. As a memory of the old hairbrush.

I don’t laugh. I don’t tell him it’s silly. I respect his need. I cut off the bristle. He puts it in his treasure box, along side some smooth rocks, beads, sparkly decals, a Santa Claus charm from a classmate, a few other things meaningful to him.

He throws the old hairbrush away himself. He is able to move on, and accept the change.