September 2000

Picture me, and you will picture a million others. You see a bisexual teenager on the brink of absolutely nothing - other than total collapse. This is not the first time, and it won't be the last-manic depression seems to be a common quality in the see-saw world of questioning youth.

And so you see this boy walk through the dark halls of high school, with bleached blonde hair, fair skin, and a unique vintage seventies style that reflects his theatrical background. He is not an outcast of society, and he hates no one. His ears are not pierced, his veins do not flow with toxic chemicals, and he condemns no one. He does not dress in all black. He does not limp wrist his way to popularity. And to some, his problems are few and far between.

But then another teenager passes by in the sea of others rushing through this hall like cattle being prodded to their stalls. His hair blonde, his skin rich with tan and his face impeccably perfect. And for one brief instant, a flash of pain can be seen in the boy's eyes as he takes a few extra seconds to stare at what seems to be just another ant in the mound. Not in his face, mind you, but his eyes-vague enough to be easily missed.

And suddenly this boy's mind flashes with a thousand scenes of pain and pleasure - although the object of his memories only faintly resembles his local counterpart that has just passed, it is enough to strike a nerve. For a few moments, he slips into a spectral visionary world that sends him shivering with contempt and horror and lust and love and shame. Yet he still walks on, and you would never know the difference. This scene will be replayed over and over again, everyday, until the day his bleached blonde hair is grey and falls lightly over a cold forehead.

Coming out was not enough. Experiencing the fruits of sex and realizing how he and his underground society of alternative lifestylers, half of those enrolled are unwillingly chained to it, are lost and face only dead ends only sent him slamming head first into the impenetrable concrete.

This boy cannot stand who he is, although he doesn't mind who he is at all. This boy cannot stand the labels, the names, the classifications in which he is placed under. This boy cannot understand why he is one of them, why of all the straight boys walking around he is the one who fulfills this destiny. This boy shrivels away at the sight of his own kind, with their limp wrists and feminine disguises that make a mockery of who he feels his is.

This boy has cried so much that he is completely drained, and has not shed a tear in months. This boy has forgotten how to love. This boy is completely jaded with everyone and everything, and nostalgically reaches out for those innocent days of naivete in which everyone was perfect and he still knew how to feel. This boy longs for touch and love, yet rejects every offer of it.

This boy cringes at every absurdity, every injustice he sees and feels utterly helpless in the face of it.

'Did you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter as the promise of a brave new world came falling 'neath the clear blue sky. The flames are all long gone, but the pain lingers on.' *

This boy is me, and this boy is consistently falling behind in the race to survive.



©1995-2000 Oasis Magazine. All Rights Reserved.