And the wails came again. . .

To Jerome:

It’s been a long time since you stepped into my realm and listened, my beloved. So long that I can almost gasp at what’s keeping me to not raise my hand and choke the life out of you. For it wouldn’t have made any difference. You’re already dead.

Dead as the maple leaves that flutter in rhythm with the cold blowing winds of November. Dead as a lone boat floating towards wherever the tides of time send it amidst the unending sea. But you are far worst. Your death reeks as you walk, sleep and live, that I wonder why the claws of the devil have not yet opened the earth beneath your feet and consume you.

You, yet again, have failed me. It’s not an expression of disgust or surprise. It’s a mere acknowledgement. For I’ve known all along that however hard I pound on you, you would go back to your ways. Damn you and your homing instinct. Why not do it again? It’s only been a year since you tried it. Maybe you could find peace after, for you are paving hell after hell with what you’re doing now.

Well, at least, let me do my job. I have come again because I thought I heard your

heart beat, and I feel a familiar warmth. So Jerome, as a proud gay advocate and aspiring nurse, what have you been up to?

Nothing much, I would say. You’re still on that damn lane of parading what you call the ‘real you’. Hahaha. How long have you been doing that? For it’s becoming old fashioned. What would it take me to finally shed the light and let you see perhaps even a glimpse, that the reflection you see in the mirror is not you, but that of a selfish, vain, cruel, stone-hearted, proud phantom that you’ve been trying to be all these time, and whose secretly been laughing at you?

What are you doing, setting up standards for you to follow that are either too high or too stupid? Going against the law of nature by limiting and depriving yourself with the needs of your soul? Ranting on what you don’t have instead of being thankful for the things really make the real you?

And worst, what are you doing, shooting down every damn chance of love and happiness? Turning your face away, even though your cold skin yearns for the warmth of its light? There you go, spreading health and love to communities and hospitals, but you can’t even nourish your soul with what it has been yearning for.

I know my old friend, I know, it’s not pride. In the depths of your heart and soul you know it’s not. It’s cowardice. You’re weak and too scared to fight for what you want. That’s what I loved about you; you’re human. You’re not some ironclad manwhore who’s not capable of loving wholeheartedly and unselfishly. You’re weak, in need of others, a typical gay who can’t stop blushing and giggling whenever you see your crush, a glutton, a simpleton and above all, a lover. These are the things that are supposed to make you happy and contented. But you push them away, for the stupid reason that you don’t want to be like them. You’ve got to stop saying and believing that it’s pride that is taking control of you. You’re scared, and you have to deal with it or suffer the consequences later.

Two years of perseverance. Two years of isolation. Two years of without love. It’s time for you to find love in another man’s arms. You have denied and damaged yourself unimaginably. I can barely reach to you, for even me, you ignore. It’s been too long, my beloved, too long. I’m becoming tired and the molds of your home are sending me back to my mother’s eternal embrace. I don’t think that I can still fight for you. You have damaged me far enough, too. Don’t let them take me away from you, and let yourself be imprisoned in the darkness. Love me unconditionally. Fight for me. I know you can do it. I know you will do it, this time.

I love you.

Soul