being clear

This great unfolding novel we call life; the joy, the sadness, the beauty, the ugliness, such an amazing chance, such an incredible stroke of luck, or genius.

To wake up every morning and see the trees and the sunlight.

To be able to stroke the cat and to make toast.

To be able to hear neighbours sawing logs and shout at them about the noise...

I am a man. I am 22 and I have a life.

I love it, but I'm sick of doing it alone.

I want someone to share it with. Someone to say, "Yes it is a beautiful day."

Someone to say, "Shut up, mellow out." Someone to say, "Will you cook or shall I?" and "Please don't make that disgusting green soup again."

Someone to say "I love you too."

I can see him in my mind. He looks normal, ordinary, except for a glint in the eye, a tendency to smile a lot.

We laugh a lot together. He takes the piss out of me all the time.

We are busy separate entities with different interests and different friends, but when we meet I tell him about the bird I saw in the garden, the accident I nearly had on the highway. He tells me of the sad old tramp he saw outside his work place and I read him a phrase from the book I'm currently reading.

And it's all even more beautiful, even more sad, even more poignant, than if we weren't two.

Slowly, surely, we start to decode the mysteries of life together. The power, the amazing, moving, incredibleness of it all becomes even bigger, even more, until our hearts are filled and we think we might explode at the joy of just being able to do it together.

And then of course, we shag.