I love him the most during the times he drops the everyday mask that he wears and shows me his doubts and his questions about things. At normal times he can be this wry and quite confident persona, but like for most sometimes it’s a mask he puts up, and when he drops the mask and really talks to me, is when that old love thing becomes a knife wedged in my gut.

It usually happens before we go to sleep. We can lie there in bed, together, and just look up into the ceiling and let all the doubts, worries, plans, and hopes come out as touchable tangible words that can be turned, analysed, and put into perspective or context. Or it can happen on a windy knoll in Cornwall, when we sit on the ground next to each other, looking out over the ocean toward France, and throw little pebbles down the slope.

While gulls fly overhead, the wind ruins my hair and tries to remove my hood, he can open up and talk about the future. About kids. About suggestions. About us. About the stars. About science. About maths. About… everything… without that mask of confidence and certainty. His hair is getting a bit long again, and for now it’s his natural brown colour, so strands of his fringe whip around in the wind, and he talks to me.

I like the beach because it smells of tang and sea and salt. Sometimes I imagine that I’m on a boat, sailing on the sea. Sometimes I plan to learn how to sail one day, before the next crazy idea comes along and bury that for a while. Landlubber on deck is the most likely outcome, and I’d spend my first week folded over the rail, throwing up into the sea. I like the beach because he tends to give me those moments of far-seeing, of openness.

I’m fiercely possessive of him, and I think that my rare bouts of jealousy comes from this. Or perhaps the possessiveness comes from the jealousy? It’s an ugly thing when it strikes, like how that anger I used to feel was filthy and poisonous. I’m not certain that this possessiveness is a good thing or not. Sometimes I fear that it’s destructive, so I try not to let it show, and then I build a barrier between us. It seems like I’m constructing a lie about how I am with him, when I’m really this clinging insecure thing who claim loud ownership of him. I do it because I don’t want to appear to be extremely clingy.

When he opens up like he does at night in bed, or on the beach, it feels like it’s reassurance. Like it’s confirmation. Like he’s signalling to me. Maybe I’m not so good at maintaining a mask as I think. And when he does, I have this fierce, huge, and bottomless feeling for him. I never did do feelings in a measured and moderate way. I call him my mood control Mark I, and he does flatten my peaks and raise my chasms, but only to a degree. Opposites attract? He’s quite measured, an emotional flat-liner. Always composed and collected, where I am a fuse next to an explosives-factory.

I’m home again. We came home last evening and crashed early into our beds so that I’m even up at this early hour writing this. I’m compiling long reports for my ‘black journal’ about secret stuff, and meandering posts like this for the blog. And yesterday on the beach is the time I’m coming back to, because it was the best time on the trip. Just us two, the sea, the gulls, and the wind. And that openness and closeness we had, where nothing was held back in him. And I feel guilt because I didn’t let my possessiveness about him out. Maybe I should let him see how important, how really important, he is. Maybe I shouldn’t try to articulate it, but let him see the centre-of-a-star-furnace he lights in me at those times. But I don’t want to scare him because maybe it is too much.


We are slowly being sucked into the election campaign. Mark has signed up for a couple of rallies about LGBT stuff in London. I’ve let my cynical mockery loose about politics in various places. I have this strange split personality about politics. I am quite political, but I also hold current politics in quite a bit of contempt. I can’t really take the process seriously because the process is ridiculous. Yet I’m still attracted to it and want to study it.

It’s like… I’m attracted to things that doesn’t concern me and which curiously gives me hope. Like the Scottish referendum last year. Or the Greek elections. I spend hours trying to understand what’s going on, and build up hope that this time, this time, I’ll be positively surprised. Usually I’m just let down. The ‘team’ I invest in doesn’t win because they’re overpowered by the silly season of the normal democratic process. Or they win, and quickly become a farce, like Syriza in Greece.

Now I’m doing it again, and even if I know that things will probably fall flat, I can’t help but invest in a certain hope that things will change. And then I realise I’m as ridiculous as that which I moan about. After all, I’m voting for a party not because I have any particular faith in the party, but because it can’t win. If there was a chance it could win, I’m not sure I’d vote for this party. It’s like I’m seeking out, and allying with the certain losers, because I don’t want to associate with the cynics that are going to win.