Odi et Amo

I hate and I love.

I'm a fucking teenager. I shouldn't even consider "loving" anyone. I have school and obligations and parents to deal with. And, if you believe popular wisdom, teenagers just don't understand this "love" thing.

But I do love. And I do hate myself for loving. C is perfect. We're best friends. He likes Coldplay. I hate Coldplay, or at least I've pretended to for over a year. I'm too indie to like Coldplay, don't you know? Between you and me, "Violet Hill" and "Viva la Vida" are fucking awesome. Only Brian Eno is capable of turning the band I often compare to air conditioning into something more than just pleasant. I digress. C and I can talk for hours on end about practically nothing. One time we sat at "our spot" next to the River and made up stories about the white birds (geese? cranes?) who sat in the currents created by the giant turbines in the dam.

"Look at Brian over there," he says.
"I think he's enjoying those 'waves,'" I say.
"I think he's sexually enjoying those 'waves.'"

According to Facebook, he likes soccer, laughing until he cries, fire, the smell just before it rains, random acts of kindness, singing, temporal paradoxes, math, etc.
According to Facebook, I like everything he likes.

C is a man of few words. I speak too much. Though his neglect to return my texts and calls sometimes leads me to feel inadequate, I think this is a good thing. He balances me.

C is fucking gorgeous, too. Part white, part American Indian (is that what we're calling it these days?), and half Puerto Rican. His cheeks are perfectly sunken in, but not in an emaciated Ethiopian child sort of way.


The only problem? I'm gay, and I don't think he is.

As much as I hate doing Latin classwork, I cannot express how I feel when I'm around him better than Catullus does:
My tongue grows numb, a thin flame
seeps beneath my limbs, my ears ring
with their own sound, my eyes
are shrouded in double night.

I think I'm going to be using the "C" tag often.