A Tale of two Brothers.

How ethical is it to be, in whichever level form that romance can exist, whether it be a physical attraction, an emotional connection, a lustful desire, playful banter, hopeful desperation, soulful comfort, a friendly affection or a deep love; how ethical is it to be, in any form of love with two brothers at the same time?

They each represented different things, to you.

One, who paralyzed you from within just by being present in the same room. One, who you craved to be closer to, to stare into his eyes and feel the world go silent around you, floating in a vacuum of space-time, just the two of you alone in the entire world. One, who haunted your dreams and the edges of your sanity, flirting with your mind in imagined conversations, sending you spiraling into the borders of hysteria over manic excitement of his being. Yet never being able to find the courage to speak to him in the moments he was around you, save some stolen words from an alternate reality. One, who you wanted to feel against your skin, whose past and present you desperately wanted intertwined with your own, and yet so unattainable that it made your insides ache to think of him. One, who you feared could break you into a million pieces if he ever knew how intensely you wanted his arms around you. One, who could probably not ever be with you because he was already with someone else.

Two, who was a distant friend of years, though never too close until suddenly, you find yourself having late night conversations, flirting in the realness of now and enjoying the attention. A warm, strong and sensitive man, slowly yet surely playing on your need for comfort and security. Two, who promised to cook you dinner, and rub your shoulders when you became a little too tense. Two, who expressed his desire to get closer, for intimacy. Two, who you trusted, and considered who wanted you for more than just sex, who you thought could be more than just a sexual fling, who you felt might have been more than just a friend, two, with whom you subconsciously thought you could spend nights in bed with, spend days cooking with, and weeks and months falling with. Two, who might possibly have been something or everything, turned out to be nothing in the circumstances that unfolded, on a spontaneous night two awkward lovers went separate ways.

And now, you, stuck between the pain of forbidden desire and the pang of regretful longing, stood still thinking about what could be and what could have been. In a swirling vortex of confusion and strange surrealism, you stand dissociated from them both, nursing a quiet flame under each of their names, a quiet shame that should always be kept secret; for though neither flame will ever catch fire and set ablaze the entirety of your existence, though in their own ways each flame was of special significance, it is clear that it’s not ethical to be in love with two brothers at the same time…

The Room we live in.

“We believe if you let go of your need to find somebody, the universe will present you something wonderful in due time.”

“You can’t keep looking for it, it will come to you…”

“You are not alone, you have us!”

—-

There is a room, which appears to be perfectly whole at first glance. A room with four walls, a window and some furniture. There is sunlight entering the room through the window, lighting up the floor.

The closer you look you begin to notice that the room might not be as perfectly fine as it appeared to be initially. You might realize that the walls are cracking and faded in places, the wallpaper coming loose, floors creak and might even collapse if there is too much weight to bear, the chair has a broken leg, but is fixed together with a nail or two, the window is withered and yet painted to cover its scars, the sunlight illuminates the best features of the room so that anyone lookin in may not notice the damages present. A passer by will peep in, and think to themselves, ‘oh what a quaint space this is.’

They will judge my room, depending on what their own rooms look like. They will only see what they are used to seeing themselves. They will not notice my cracks if they don’t have cracks in their own walls. Everybody feels and thinks differently so who are they to judge me in my struggle?

It is easy for all of them to say, they have forgotten what it felt like to sleep in an empty bed every single night. They don’t fall asleep clutching as many pillows as possible, hoping to find some form of imagined comfort. The have forgotten the empty feeling inside, the cold hard dread, the barren wasteland devoid of emotion, a desert starving of human connection. The walls ready to crumble, the floors ready to collapse, the chair waiting to tumble, all into the depths of the emptiness beyond.

The emptiness that I sometimes find myself relishing greatly. I find myself feeling content in the calmness of my own mind, the steady stream of broken thoughts and questionable mood swings, the ideas swimming around the very concept of being alive and the meaning of life.

But what is the meaning of our inconsequential existence? It is purely to love, as many beings as we can, in all love’s forms and shapes. The only solution as I see it is to fill the emptiness that cannot really be filled with anything but love. I am not ashamed of my desire to connect with someone. When there is love to give, there should be someone to receive it too.

 

Gooey; Replay

It hits you like a glue bomb, when you realize you have feelings for your best friend, a sticky mess, that all over you; it’s in your hair, between your fingers, it’s glued your heart to your throat and you walk around with the nauseating pulse beating loudly in your ears, you cannot swallow, you want to speak, but the words are stuck in it’s gooey hot mess. The thoughts fluttering in your mind, the restless nights wondering how to get your words out, or even if you should speak at all. You go about your day, wearing a mask to hide the burning ache you feel inside, the truth struggling to break out of your chest, its fiery need to transition from thought to reality takes all your heart’s strength to hold in place. Fear of rejection and anxiety of reaction intertwine like vines, dancing its way up your spine.

And after finding the courage to finally tell him that you care, after months of deliberating whether it was the right thing to do, wondering what it would do to your relationship – friendship. And he says “I don’t feel the same way”… And though you knew in your heart of hearts that this was going to be his answer, there is no more room for wishful thinking. You stand there facing nothing but the truth, that there will be no room for anything more than what exists now. So you face this reality, though now feeling raw, exposed, vulnerable; you are more susceptible and sensitive to old wounds and lost-loves.

You sit and wonder, though ‘why?’ or rather, ‘why not?’

Your feelings for him were not those of passion and desire, they were deeper rooted, not a mere passing crush, it was a wholesome care that engulfed his being like a bubble, it was a friendship, it was a love, it was a seed grown through a year of small understandings, and misunderstandings. A flash into the future you imagine a person who loves doing the same things you do, a person you can sit comfortably in silence with, a person who you does not make you feel judged for even your most embarrassing, and weak moments, a person who makes you feel unafraid of revealing even the dirtier and darker sides of yourself, a person in whose company you feel at ease, a sense of relief, to not need to be your best self, to not worry about your insecurities, or be honest and open about them with. You could imagine him as your person, because you were all of this together… You wonder, with all this between you, whether he would change his mind, someday.

How would you feel if you could replay out every other possibility that your life could have taken, all the missed opportunities, the moments, the mishaps, the kiss that could have been instead of the tears that were shed. Would your ideal reality exist in those hundreds of probable outcomes? Would you have become lovers rather than friends, if you had not gotten so drunk that one time, or phrased your words a little differently, if you had not taken that trip, if you had let your guard down from the beginning, if you weren’t in love with other people in between, would that initial kiss have led you down a different path, one that would have ended in cuddled comfort on the couch watching the netflix series on the possibilities of your life’s choices, rather than with two separate aching hearts though together yet far apart.

‘I can’t fix your broken heart’

“I can’t fix your broken heart…” he said, as he ungripped himself from my embrace. Shifting his arm from beneath mine and unlocking his legs entangled in my own, he got up from the bed. As I lay there, clutching the sheets closer to fill up the void he left behind. It was not his fault, I knew. Nobody could fix my broken heart, and he was not the one that broke it in the first place; but I had broken his, years ago.

So maybe the pain I felt now, as I lay huddled in the blankets, pretending to be sleeping, was what I deserved for the mistakes I made in the past. The feeling of being abandoned at the bottom of a deep well, wet and cold all around and the walls so close on every side…You look up and the light is only a small disc in the distance, fading in the dusk. Holding in my tears, allowing the light to completely disappear. Was what I wanted just a stolen moment to feel that deep sense of comfort in the arms of someone familiar, in the wake of the rejection I had faced only a few days ago? Or was it that I was feeling regret in ever letting go in the first place, and I wanted reassurance of the idea that I still exist for you too?

Maybe it was a little bit of both. It was strange business, to be close friends with your ex. Whose newfound happiness in finding himself a new person, who excites him, makes him smile and feel good about life with; makes you so bitter and cynical. I was feeling raw, exposed, vulnerable already. Sore hearted, heavy hearted, after knowing that someone I cared for, did not have the capacity to care for me in the same way. I found myself asking him personal questions, inquisitive, to mask my own sorrow.

“I have never felt happier in my life, with anybody else” he said.

The only words that rung in my ears that night, through a haze of drunkenness, we had talked, argued and I had flung my emotions out, yet they had not dried. Am I resentful that you are happy? Happier than you had been with me? Or was I offended that you had not considered my feelings when you raucously exclaimed of your current exuberant state of existence?… Either way, the words stayed with me, along with a sharp clinging painful fishhook in my heart, a memory of how it felt to lie with you, to feel that closeness again for a moment in time. Just a reminder, that I needed something, or someone, I did not know. Was it your embrace that I crave, or just the idea of your comfort? Am I bitter because I am jealous? Or is it because I do not know whether I could be happy?

I fall in love with people whom I know will not return it, ever indulging the cycle of heartbreak, like a necessary drug. And having pushed you away years before, the only one who deserved the love I should have given, I lie in a pool of self pity and stew in regret, wondering whether it was always a mistake to have let you go…

I hover like a dark cloud.

 

The Fear of Love

There is a fear; a dark, cold, haunting shadow of a being that walks one step behind your every move. It hovers over your shoulder, ever present. It hides, just out of sight, yet always there lurking behind you, waiting for a moment to make its presence known. So that it can come creeping up close to you, with its ice cold, clammy fingers reaching up around your neck, whispering things into your ear. Things that make your throat close up, your heart feel heavy in your chest, your lungs fill up with harsh cold air, and you can feel your heart struggling to beat suspended in a chasm that is your breast.

Once this Fear takes hold of you, it merges itself onto your body. It thrives off of your loneliness and feeds irrational thoughts into your brain. The fear of being unworthy, of loss and heartbreak, of isolation and most of the fear of pain.

For years you’ve cowered away from letting anyone get close to you, because of your fear of the pain from your past. Despite so desperately wanting to love, and be loved in return, are you really able to allow yourself to open up to another person and accept their love as an entirety? Are you capable of letting go of the shadow of doubt and dismay of your past, and be able to count experiences with new and different people as wholly new, with no connection to the pain that you have felt before. Or will that fear, of what happened before may happen again stop you from ever making yourself vulnerable? That the past will repeat itself, scare you away from having any sort of functional relationship in the future?

The fear of betrayal, an oozing scar that never fully heals, of never being good enough for the person who you craved affection from, of ideas that were fed into your mind that you were intolerable, unattractive, loud and ungraceful; made you believe that everyone saw you in this way, even you yourself was convinced of it. Since then you never truly believed when anyone said you were beautiful or enjoyable. Fear infects your subconscious, to thinking its all a lie. You distress through it, pushing these people away, because you feel like you are not deserving of the love and affections of such a person, and conceiving that if you do make yourself vulnerable, they would just stab you in the heart with a jagged shard of your broken trust, and leave you lying in a pool deception. You are constantly unsatisfied, steadily disconnected and wholly empty of the happiness that you dream of. Yet constantly paranoid of caring for anyone, lest they are all mask wearing actors, on the stage that is the tragedy of your life.

Then you tell yourself that maybe it is easier to not love, to only feel anything two inches deep; because people will always disappoint you, eventually they will all hurt you in some way. Is it easier then to not care about anybody else at all? To go on living while barely feeling anything for anyone, is it safer to lock up your heart in a metal box and hide away the key? To make sure that you will never feel pain again, yet you will also never feel love… Why is it so difficult to love, again?