The Thing About Him

My Symphonies:

  • Sweater Weather / The Neighbourhood
  • West Coast / Lana Del Rey
  • “Antichrist” / The 1975

ktenoriopic

The thing about him is that he’s different. Yes, he came out of his mother’s womb, spilled milk from the baby bottle, scratched his knee, bruised his elbow and went through puberty like all the other biological boys out there, but he’s different. He’s different in the way that he dresses. You can always see him wearing a rather uptight outfit, but look closer and you’ll find that he leaves the most part of his shirt unbottoned; his pants are fairly tight, but he moves with such freedom. And his shoes – you might have seen the same pair in a nearby local store, but the places those shoes have kissed are places you can only imagine in one of your daydreams. He’s different in the way that he talks to people. Unlike the general Western Civilization population, he doesn’t like small talks. In fact, he detests them. He’s different in that he considers a meaningful, honest conversation as a form of sacred privilege – almost like an encounter with God. He believes that a genuine connection between two human beings is the closest thing we’ve come to infinity. Also, he’s different in the way that he loves. He doesn’t want to know what job you have or how much money you make; he wants to know what you bleed for, what you cringe for, what it is that makes you vulnerable. He couldn’t care less about how many virtual friends you have, but it matters to him how many lives you’ve touched, how many nights you’ve survived aching, how many rocks you dodged to still be breathing at this very minute. Sometimes you will be tempted to show him your best side, your pretty side – the kind of filtered version of people that they post on Facebook, or Twitter – the perfect side. But you will soon find that you’ve just committed a fatal act by choosing to show him the perfect side of you all the time. Because he’s not into that. He’s different in that he’d rather gaze at an ugly face with a fat, broken, suffering real heart than a made up Barbie-like mannequin with no soul. In a world such as ours, it may be difficult to comprehend, but he falls in love with you each time you slip, stumble or fall. He falls in love with you each time you accidentally bump your head into the glass door, or spill your morning coffee all over your work shirt, or bite your tongue while you’re eating your dinner, or something. He falls for you, and he falls for you not because of how beautiful you are but because of how your ugliness translates to him as beautiful.

The thing about him is that he likes to moan. No, not always in the sexual way, but actually in the soulful way. He likes it when his heart is being crushed, because that only means that it still operates. In one of your fights or one of your arguments, he will smile a little inside when he sees that you are aching because to him, aching is equivalent to a heart that still cares and a life that still moves. Dead people don’t ache, he figures, and so seeing you feel pain is important to him. The thing is that he’d be damned to lock his hands with someone who is allergic to pain, allergic to chaos. Because to him, what is love without a little tragedy? It is pure pretense. Show him your soul, because by now he has probably started to get naked in front of you.

The thing about him is that he always falls in love with artists. More so with the art, actually, not so much with the people. He looks at a drawing, a painting, or watches a film or a play or a dance routine, and the wheels inside his head just starts turning. He listens to a song and without even noticing, bleeds from his chest down to the floor because he has just been shot with an introspective arrow. If you ever take the time to sing to him, for example; it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t have a Celine Dion kind of voice – you will be able to move mountains inside his world because an art, to him, is the most perfect act of imperfection. It is perhaps his occasional fuel to go on with life, and maybe to go on with you. So he needs art. He needs your art.

The thing about him is that he is addicted to the idea of life being an ephemeral gift that he has to savor, in every way that he possibly can. For him, it is better to be totally ridiculous than be totally boring. Sure, he is dramatic, but he is alive. And the thing is that you’re gonna wanna change him – someday, somehow. You’re gonna wanna fix him because he looks broken; he looks like he needs saving. There will be days when you start to wonder how someone can be so fucked up, so locked up in darkness and pure chaos. You will begin to count ways to get to him and put some sense into his head. And this is the thing about him that you will eventually learn along the process: He just sucks at long-term planning. And he hates making “big life decisions” that should “define his future”. He just hates it. But what can he do? He is not what people want him to be, and probably not what you what him to be. He likes to dance in the rain (literally), talk loud, laugh boisterously and sometimes get a little too drunk and a little too high. He likes to talk to random strangers that may or may not be dangerous, go to places he’s never been, sing at the top of his lungs in the sky train and maybe even scratch his knees over and over again like he did when he was in pre-school. This is what he is made of – life experiences taken in large doses. The thing about him is that he’d rather run, fly and whirl through life like a blind hurricane than carefully walk through it within the bounds of some sort of a Life Instruction Book. He hates guidelines, and he hates rules, and he hates standards. He does not believe in any of that crap. But this doesn’t mean that he is a bad, or a weak, or a broken person. This just means that he is his own person – an individual existing in this planet solely as an individual, working his best not to be filtered by society. His main goal in life has always been to become a beach bum one day, when he is strong enough and alive enough to finally commit to that goal. Yes. He’d rather live by the beach and dance and drink all day with friends and loved ones with the view of the sunset every 5:30PM. In the evenings at the beach, he will be gazing straight into a bonfire and he’ll be looking at the stars above him, listening to his heartbeat. And he will smile. That will be the most authentic defining moment of success according to his watch. This is him, and people always fail to understand that. You will fail to understand that. But he has given up on hoping that anyone will truly understand, because that’s not what this is about for him. It’s about being. Simply being. And that, to him, is beautifully liberating.

The thing about him is that he is a nonbeliever of the future. To him, the future is the biggest deception in all of this universe. If you come to think about it, this thing we call future is really just an illusion until you wake up one morning and it has turned into the present. But until then, the future does not exist. It is a propaganda. And he knows this. He has seen people suffer, lovers break, families part ways and lives shatter because people took for granted a million moments in their lives, all because they had assumed there would be a million more. Live with him in the moment. It is completely okay to want to have a future with him, and to build a life with him, but do not hurt him, or leave him, or take him for granted today just because you want to be happy with him tomorrow. Today is pretty much the only world he lives in. He is in there, right now. With you. Grab him by the waist and kiss him.

Kiss the fuck out of him. 

Most importantly, out of all of the many things about him, know this:

He is not perfect. But neither are you. If you are exclusively looking for the Prince Charming type of guy, he is probably not the one for you. He won’t be your Knight In Shining Armor, or the eye candy stud riding on the White Horse to come and sweep you off your feet and lead you to a castle of riches and pure joy. That is not how it works with him, and actually with love. You will both have mad days, poor days, days like hell and days when you would wanna just disappear. He will drive you crazy, and he will hurt you. He loves you, yes. But he will hurt you. He promises to all of the gods that he will continue to hurt you, because he is imperfect to a fault. But so will you. And that doesn’t mean that you both do not love each other; it just means that you love each other strongly and deeply enough to bother with hurting and to bother with being hurt. You love each other to the point of grief and tears. One morning, at around 5AM, just when the sun is about to rise, you will stare at him while he is fast asleep, and you’re gonna think of how much time you’ve wasted living with him. You will think of the wasted hours and days and months being with such a broken person – too broken a person you could see cracks in his eyes when you hold your gaze a little longer. But those cracks are cracks that he himself had made. He purposefully put them there, so that you will have something to look through, so that you can see him beyond his physical appearance. The cracks are there not so you can fix him, but so you can have more room for your hands to take grip on him, to hold on to him.

He is not perfect, but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break. And as much as he promises that there will be bad days, he also promises that there will be good days. And you will live to see those days only when you stick around long enough. For him and for the universe, love isn’t a one-track album. You don’t get to listen to just one happy song all the time, you get the whole package. You get like three thousand other songs that come with the album. How neat is that?

So perhaps despite all this, the only thing about him that you must learn is that he is who he is. Good and bad, ugly and handsome, proper and inappropriate. He is both the night and the morning, the cave and the great outdoors, the shot of tequila and the mug of green tea. He is a poem. 

That is the thing about him.

“We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems—the ones that make you truly who you are—that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person—someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”

I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.

Let our scars fall in love.” (Andrew Boyd)

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