The paths that could have been…

There are no excuses I can give-sure, reasons and justifications exist but not excuses. I will not make any excuses.. And by extension, that makes all reasons and justifications moot.
Without excuses, without reasons; there is no blame. Or rather, it is that the blame cannot be apportioned to anyone else. The blame rests solely with me; the blame resides in me. But to acknowledge that blame that rests on my shoulder, waiting to ensnare me in its waiting jaws in order to drag me down into that spiral of hell, that long descent towards self recriminations, is to give it power.. And I won’t do that, not this time.
All I can acknowledge is a weariness-a tiredness. The kind which comes with the constant push and struggle which apparently leads nowhere. Even on the most optimistic of days, those days when I can grudgingly admit to myself that I didn’t do all that badly, it is tough for me to find any point to the struggle. Where has it lead me? Did I learn anything? 
It behooves me to try again and again, repeatedly. For to give in and give up is to accept the bitter realisation that the path I chose, on my own, is not true… And I have not that strength to double back and find the true way. For even false roads lead somewhere; even they eventually end up in some kind of clearing-a denouement, an end. Even those byways and overgrown paths lead somewhere eventually; but of course, the constant fear of a dead end remains… 
The fact is, back then, decisions were made-small little inconsequential things, which at that time, didn’t seem to mean anything but which may have turned out to be my undoing. And realising those mistakes later, I still went ahead and did the same thing over… I have no explanation for those turn of events-no way to justify… And it is precisely the cause of why I am where I am. 
There is nothing to do now but to accept that events have transpired as they have, the chips have fallen where they may. As much as I can rue the decisions made, the paths that could have been, now fading away, there is no point in that. Why cry over a path that can never be traversed? It will not bring that path back-that journey can never be made… The only thing left to do is to walk the path I am on, to the bitter end… Wherever it leads..


With bated breath…

The waiting and the not knowing is the hardest part.. You are on the edge of a precipice, on tenterhooks, just waiting; seconds pass, minute after minute.. Waiting for confirmation, for validation. 
The tragic part is that the outcome is already known. The powers that be have already determined who shall not pass; call these powers fate or HR-call them whatever one pleases, but they already know the power they yield…
It is hard to remain indifferent when this is one of the rare opportunities remaining. It is hard to maintain the perspective that it doesn’t, at the end of the day really matter-that this is but the first part of a long journey, and that a failure at this stage doesn’t preclude one from success.. It is hard to hold on to that precarious grip on the edge of sanity, precisely because of the deeply warping desire to claim some form of validation from a vote of confidence. 
Ah, but to stake confidence on this outcome is a fallacy… Mostly because the expectation and the reality of what will be, what is to come are so divergent. What will happen may not necessarily be good for me nor what I want. What I want today, right now, this moment, more than anything: to get an internship may not necessarily be the best course, the wisest path…
But still I wait with bated breath; too weak to leave it all to God, to own the fact that I have done all I could, that what I put forth was the best of my abilities and to accept the judgement which comes… I wait for that email, that call, that sign of it being my time, my turn. I wait and I dream and I dread.. Soon, what is to be will reveal itself… And whatever that outcome is, I can only hope that I will have the force of will, the grace and the strength to accept it and to soldier onwards…

A victim mentality..

The victim mentality.I don’t deny it, I have the tendency to play the victim card. I do it because it’s easy, because it’s expedient, perhaps because the only way I can sort of push myself to go forward is to have collect the sympathy I receive and use it as some kind of force to propel me forward, as though sympathy is some kind of battery for me. It’s pathetic isn’t it? But there I go again, seeking sympathy.
The truth is I really would like to stop wallowing in the filth of my own misery. I do. But essentially the detente with that is this: to stop wallowing in self pity, I need to make some very tough decisions. And I am risk averse; averse to making any kind of decision. And so I continue down this wretched path hoping for something to change, wishing for some momentous event to happen so I can delineate my life into pre- and post- this event. I go on doing things in the same fashion, living my life in the exact same way always putting of any kind of beneficial change, which I know I must make but am too afraid of making, off. Ladies and gentlemen, that is the very definition of crazy.
I know why I have lost readers over this period; because reading about one person’s self pity and watching vicariously as that person sinks deeper into the quagmire of fear whilst refusing to change in order to save himself is tiring. Beyond tiring, it’s boring. The same paths rehashed, the same topics raked over repeatedly as though ripping through old wounds and ancient grudges is going to effect some kind of change. I know. I have exasperated a fair chunk of what used to be my regular readers; exasperated them to the point where they have ceased reading, stopped visiting and I stand to lose the remainder of my readers if I continue on this path.
But what I cannot seem to do, what I wish I could get someone to tell me how to do, is change. I want to be able to say that I am truly not affected by the almost constant deluge of rejections I receive; whether it’s career related or men related. But I am. The frank truth is that it kills me. It destroys me. And yes, I wallow and I write…
Admittedly, I do know that the career related rejections are implicitly my fault. I must take the blame for that; because I haven’t thought through thoroughly what it is I want to do with my current degree. One could say that I am only applying for internships because it is the thing to do. I have zero conviction on whether I want to work in a bank, or in management consulting or in an investment bank or an accounting firm. I don’t know what it is I want to do and it shows on my applications, so the rejections should come as no surprise to me. Despite how well I am doing, and I am doing well all things considered, minus that conviction, I will never successfully get an interview. 
Here is my attempt then, feeble as it is, to maintain a sense of clarity, to in a way, stop playing the victim. I am not the victim.. It is perhaps for the best that I don’t get an internship because I don’t know if that’s what I want to do. And it’s ok to admit that. I just need to embrace that fact…
I will also cop to the fact that rejection in love is also to be expected since the timing isn’t right… And there really is nothing more to say on that matter.. 
All I can say now is that I am trying, I really am. There is no point in me trying to garner any kind of sympathy in order to ‘take strength’ from it.. But at the same time, without making the changes I must make, my life will not be in any state of flux. Meaning that whatever I write, will always sound like a rehash… 


There are the similarities-both applying for internships/jobs and dating in that both are basically numbers games. They operate on the belief that as long as one does not give up, there will be a reward in terms of a job or a man at the end of the hard slog.
Here I am reminded of a scene in the movie Little Fish with Cate Blanchett. Her character, in the midst of a despairing soliloquy asks, ‘what more can I do?’. Or words to that effect. In essence, sometimes one can do everything right, do every possible thing and yet still not be able to achieve that goal of a job or a man. Somehow, something, whether one is able to distinguish what it is, or whether one is blissfully oblivious, keeps getting in the way. Put it another way, either one is not good enough, or there are other people who are superficially better.
I know, don’t I know it, that either love or a career or both in some kind of magic formulation is not going to guarantee my happiness. I know that happiness isn’t meant to be fuelled by just these two things, that career and love are not all encompassing.. Yet, these two aspects seem to be the only thing that I am aware of that has the potential to make me happy. 
Perhaps it is who I am; a person who conflates happiness with security, with having money. All my choices, be it in terms of my career or the men I date have been made in order to maximise the chances that I will have a secure life, and that I am able to lead the lifestyle I wish to live. But these choices haven’t necessarily been the best; in fact, I could possibly call a lot of them the wrong choice. 
I am fully aware that what I need to do right at this moment has nothing to do with either my career or love-I need to find a source of self worth that is not inherently linked to something external like a career or a man; neither can it be something as superficial as my body. I know that I have to find something that I am passionate about, and not be a dilettante about it. I just don’t know what it is… 
Once upon a time, I thought it was my writing-but let’s face it, the only reason I wrote in the past was because I secretly wished for literary fame and fortune-as much as I decried the ‘fame now’ ethos of Hannah Horvath, the ugly truth is that I felt the same way-that I was an undiscovered voice of my generation. Obviously I am not.. There already is a gay Asian voice, voices even; what more could I add to that conversation? being a dilettante, of course I basically gave up on writing once I realised that… And whatever I write now is basically just an extended version of my own rambling musings.. 
Take away the writing, what else is there? I am nothing special. Average in all aspects. Not that having a passion for something equates to being good or the best at that thing-see, another one of my warped ideas… 
I realised that I left of doing a lot of the ‘normal’ things that people do in the course of their youth; things like travel for instance. I left it off because I kept thinking how awkward it would be to travel alone, to be unable to share that experience. Of corse there was a semblance of fear there, but on the whole, I left off doing those things, waiting for something, someone to be able to do it with. And now, it’s basically too late. 
I can only hope and pray for some breakthrough now. Because I have done almost everything possible in terms of my career and my love life. Whether I did these things right is of course a debatable point.. That’s all I can do now really, return to waiting for something to happen…

No light at the end

It’s a bittersweet moment when one has to relinquish all hopes of something bigger to come. One can either chalk it up to false expectations or to misplaced hopes in the attempt to push past whatever ache this abandonment of intent has caused..
It is a moment tinged with bitterness, that is undeniable. And the sweet? Well that comes from the knowledge and the comfort that life need not be suspended in breathless anticipation of the next move and what comes after. There is no after, no us, no we; there is only me, I, along again naturally. There is no more need to moodily stare at a silent phone wondering when the next text, the next call, the next message will come through; no more wondering about whether I am in his thoughts like he is in mine. There is no more need to rehearse what to say, what kind of nonchalant tone to portray. 
The freedom to not care anymore is back; although I cannot help wondering: if I had that carefree, don’t give a fuck attitude right from the start… What could have been? For if there is one thing I am certain of, it is that men, and gay men especially, hate clinginess. 
It is a giving up, yes, and also a rejection. But at least this time; at the very least, I am disengaging with my dignity intact; at least this time I did not beg for anything. Sometimes that is the best that one can ask for in these situations; to have come out with ones dignity intact.
This is what would have happened anyhow. I should know, really I should, that love is not a path one can force or choose for that matter. As cliched as it is, love does choose the person and not vice versa. I just wish that I could reconcile myself to that fact, stop wishing so much for it and move on. Of course that is easier said than done. With my life being as barren as it is, it is exceptionally difficult. When there is so little to look forward to on a day to day basis, then what can I do but obsess over love? 
I do not yet know what to do, going forward.. Perhaps there is no more ‘forward’ to go.. Perhaps this is it then; the lonely life, the single life…
Where the love life has failed, rightfully this should be counteracted by some kind of success in my career. Shouldn’t it? Isn’t that the way of the world, balance, Tao and all that crap? But it’s not… Life is unfair and cruel, and to expect one aspect of my life to work because the other is in shambles is hoping for too much. Suffice to say, no aspect of my life is going well; it’s a train wreck, it is chaos. Nothing is working at the moment and it’s frustrating and it’s depressing. A life of no’s; that’s my life currently-no love, no career, no life. 

Too late..

You said, we would make it work. You said we’d figure something out…
Were you just saying what you believed I wanted to hear? Was there any conviction in those utterances of yours?
I read too much into your words; just like I did with the man before and the man previously. They all paid lip service to the idea; the concept of the polite thing to say, the words which were in line with the social mores of what to say post sexual encounter.
I was foolish, of course, too naive. I wanted to believe what you said, I wanted to believe that you weren’t just saying it. You were different, I thought. You weren’t like the others, I thought. Turns out you are.
There isn’t much left to say now; the tattered remnants, the weary words which I attempt to squeeze from you in an increasingly desperate, increasingly foolish attempt to keep you interested. Interested in what exactly? What end am I pursuing? 
You were never going to be right for me, despite how many boxes you ticked. And that is my problem; the simple inability to see a man for who he is beyond just a series of boxes to wearily check off. The fault is mine and solely mine alone; for constantly pursuing men who are carbon copies of each other. How was I to know that men like them, men like you, just won’t ever see me as equal to themselves. Truly, I am not equal to you, with them. Not yet. 
By the time I am your equal, it will be too late. By then, I would be just like you, only capable of small, short term affairs-not of the heart, but just the physical. By then, I would be immune, oblivious to the hurt I would cause by acting in such a fashion. By then, I wouldn’t care the damage I would have wrought. 
Simply put, if it didn’t work with you, with all that you said; then it most likely would never have worked with anyone else…

A symphony 

Prelude pathetiqueThere once was a boy; young he was, standing at the precipice of life willing it to begin. The boy knew nothing of life, of the struggles which come hand in hand with living-he was innocent, he was naive, he was beautiful. 
The boy knew not what he wanted; rather, he had vague ideas, shadowy outlines of the kind of life he imagined he would have. These preconceptions gleaned from the imaginary images on screen; the tales of happy endings and good things, of the men to come, the love he would have and above all the success he felt entitled to. For above all things, the boy felt he was entitled to that glittering life; felt that he deserved it for no other reason that he was special-marked for greatness and great things. All that promise; all that potential..
The boy made mistakes; for sure he did. The boy expected kindness, bountiful love. But all he got, all he ever seemed to get was love of the rotten variety, skinny love which never lasted more than a season. The boy met men, as he knew he would, but the men he met were only of a single type-men who recognised immediately the scent of vulnerability, of inept youth, of unspoilt, pure innocence; and they pounced. 
Manipulation, being used, seen as nothing more than a vessel-what hope did this boy have? How could he know that love is not meant to be like this. How could he be kind to himself when all he knew as love was based on some fairy tale, which was so disparate from the reality he was facing; how would he recognise pure love?

That the boy gravitated to men who could only offer up a modicum of affection in return for his body is a given; that the boy made horrible judgement calls, refusing an earnest suitor for one who was, in his mind, more successful based on some youthful, foolish, completely arbitrary standard is irrefutable. The boy went on for years, plaintively asking for scraps of affection, asking to be loved, begging to be seen; only to be cruelly ignored, used. The years went by…
Nocturne: Back to Black

To the endless night-to the dark, dank cell of the mind in isolation; the boy retreats to, after each failed encounter. Bitterness sets in; a jaded cynical view of love for the highest bidder; the view of love as a transaction. Give and you shall receive. And yet, despite the cruel whispers of his mind, the boy still makes foolish mistakes. After all, remove the pain, remove the despair, take away the stilted, brutal words and there is hope. The boy is hopeful; what else can he be? To give up on the hope is to meet a kind of death; a slow death, one in which the body and the flesh remains but the spirit is gone, the fire within dissipated. The boy crams that hope down, deep in the crevices of his heart. 
He hopes for love-yes, but a love with conditions and strings. He is unable to accept that he has no value in the dating market; that his price he wishes to command is above what the market would pay for someone like him. And in a crowded market place, where there is a cacophony of other more willing boys; boys just like him-damaged, unworthy; what chance did he have against the vultures, the hungry men who preyed and prowled, searching for boys to consume and then discard; boys to conquer; boys to toy with.
He played the game; for he now realised it was a all a game-love of the purest kind was a myth. It never existed. 
The boy was never made to play ruthless games of love. He was too soft, too quick to believe-gullible and with a shaky sense of self worth; prime targets for the honey tongues predators. In quick succession, the boy was used; in rapid fire movement he was discarded. 
Each time he returned to black; each time he emerged to try again; a never ending cycle with new men but the same old ending. 

It wasn’t that the boy didn’t meet men who were good to him-true, brief flashes of colour pierced the grey and black arrangements of gloom shrouding his life. There were good men who were willing, good men who might have-but the boy ruined these chances. How was he to know what to do? He’d never known good love from bad-men who were worthy and those who were not. 
Opportunities for happiness were squandered. Multiple times; ‘oh if only’ became the boys’ familiar refrain. 
Brief flashes of hope-all gone; the mists of despair begins to set in. There is no hope; there is still hope; the boy swings from one extreme to the other. And as he prevaricated, dragged his feet wondering which way to turn, time continued onwards. 
Mise en scene

Too many times; one time too many. Enough is enough. Is it though? When men become a distraction, when the disappearance of the old becomes an excuse to search for the new; will it ever be enough? The boy has no idea anymore why the search continues; why the cycle cannot seem to be broken. The boy has nothing urging him on-only the sick sense that his life will only truly begin once love is found; as though love were some kind of quest. There is more to life-but the boy doesn’t quite understand that yet. For his life, what appears to be a large part of it has been spent looking, searching for love to the exclusion of all other aspects of life. 
Therein lies the problem? Is that a problem? The boy muses even as he inherently knows the answer. What he doesn’t know is what to do to find the missing parts of his life. And with that hole, no man, no one would ever consider him, notice him. 
The end

There is no end. The boy is lost and hasn’t been found. He wishes to return to the start, to start over-impossible. Where to turn to, who to turn to, what to do? No answers meet him as he turns his eyes towards what lies ahead. He sees nothing but the dark, shrouded gloominess of an empty wasted life, whichever way he looks at it, forward or backward.. The sinking realisation that comes to the boy is that he wasted his life yet he has nothing to look forward too. This is his life; a nothing life, a nothing existence. This is his fate. There can be no alleviating or changing it. The choice is to live this nothing life. There is no alternative and that glittery life he once assumed he would have-that was the lie. The reality is this nothing life, this nothing existence. What else is there to ponder?