But I never tried to keep a little bisexuality a secret, did I? My girlfriend was that way—and, because of that, I had every reason to embrace it, and I did. So all of the above is not the entire story—the fact of the matter is not that I have something to hide—or that I want to hide it; on the contrary, I’m lonely, and I want an emotional connection in my life—only that would take the edge off, and that, physically, is not forthcoming, so I must turn to atheism or God, and, if I had to choose, all things being equal, I’d choose God, because, really, who wants to believe that life, ultimately, is imperfect?
Is this depressing? In a sense, yes, because this means there is nothing more to accept—nothing I can attribute my problems to, and, as such, I have no way of knowing when, or if, things will improve. But they have to, don’t they? I can’t go on like this. So I’ll quit thinking, then, that my sexuality is the root of my woes, because it isn’t; sure, I never had any worthwhile experience, and I didn’t go around telling people in general, identifying myself, as gay, but I never denied it, either.
I never had the chance to establish an emotional connection with a man—so what did I miss out on? Nothing. And the options I had, when it came to women, were limited, so what did I miss out on? Nothing. In many ways, now, I am better off without an emotional connection, since, if that connection is fatally flawed, what future do I have, in that? Better then, to do what I’m doing—establish a better relationship with God, let Jesus, even more, into my heart, dream up a woman, the right woman, and imagine the connection that, for now, is not there. It’s better, I think, than telling myself, over and over again, to accept my sexuality, when, I think, for the most part, by now, I’ve gone as far as I can go—there is no greater closet to come out of. I may never have wanted to make a big deal out of it, but, after all, why should I make a big deal out of something that, for me, was, and always will be, normal?
Caffeine by day, and the absence of liquor
by night; the absence, I think, of Jesus,
too, since, if He were here, as I’d prefer,
I wouldn’t dream of a drunken chorus,
and the afflictions of sobriety.
But getting sober, really, is about
realizing that there’s no possibility,
anymore, to get high; You’re a lout
to try—it doesn’t work, that’s a fact.
And yet, nothing ever took its place,
and left me satisfied with what I lacked,
the future that, every day, I face,
already. Soda pop, yoga, showers—
nothing works, and nothing ever will,
until I change my state of mind. Answers
to questions I would not ask, like a pill,
do not arrive—and I’m left to the void.
Again, the solution is either in
atheism or religion—I’m annoyed
to think that I must choose, but, again,
I already have. But I live in limbo—
I see, on TV, the people I miss—
relationships with those I’d know,
around my age, with nothing to dismiss,
nothing about my generation would
prove foreign to my generation—
the one I left behind, at birth, and stood
by, nonetheless, through my creation.
But I don’t belong there, either, do I?
The generation I know and love
exists in the confines of my mind’s eye,
a motley collage of heaven above,
and real people that I deconstruct.
So be it—there’s no room in my life for
anybody but Jesus, so I conduct
myself accordingly, as I’d prefer,
knowing, as I do, that nothing really
works—save a little religion, hard-pressed,
with its back against a wall, truly free,
I guess, when we’re at our most distressed.