Bronte: as visibly invisible as my millenial self

I’ve got this friend.

I don’t think you know him. But you’ve probably seen him before. He’s everywhere and usually, I’m right behind him.

We are different and the same. They say he looks a lot like me, but that isn’t true; though in some ways it must be, since people say it a lot.  I like to think our similarities are etched in our personas. We were born in the same time. We are the echo boomers. Generation X and Y and what not. Yes, millennial if you must. So, there must be something generically similar or even identical about us, internally, and as perceived by others maybe. But physically, no.

He’s as dark as dark chocolate, and I am more like caramel as can be. We are different really. He is more into the strongly articulate, mainstream and extroverted nuances of culture. I tend towards psychedelic sounds and seemingly uncommon expressions to life and living, the quiet hippie and artsy vibe probably.

We are always hanging out, with the unsaid objective being culturally saturated in some way; and in these moments, even our internal differences surface to the brim of life and living. So yeah, as I already said, we seem the same, and in some ways, are. Yet, we strive as well to be different and notwithstanding that strife, are. Ironically sometimes, in seeking to be different, that object makes us the same.

So, there we are going to check out this new coffee shop or this concert in the same aim; to be different and the same. We say we like the same music sometimes; other times its clear our tastes and genre of film are chasms apart. Our friendship and attachment subsists and is sustained by those compromises and concessions to be similar, even though we already are, but in some ways, are not. We are different and the same. Dark chocolate and Caramel. Comfortable together and apart.

I’ve got this friend. He’s not much for words. He’s hidden his heart away. For him, it is the occasional salutations and the socially constraining duty to be amiable. His performance actually suffices when he puts his mind to it.

But that’s the thing.

In the place of heartfelt engagement is mental automation. It’s like dead man’s chest all over again. What turned Davy Jones into Davy Jones and kept him that way was the absence of that thing, apart from him, that made him human. True. Apart from him, it was safe and with good reason. But he was dead.

I, on the other hand, cannot dare pretend that thing doesn’t exist, even if sometimes I wish it didn’t. The repercussions would destroy my essence. I would forget who I am. I would cease to exist. When he pretends he doesn’t care, he really does. When I don’t care its written all over my face and will be the unmistaken subject of each blog entry I write to be cool.

I’ve got this friend; a loveless romantic. He tells me all the stories. Always the knight in shining armor rescuing the damsel in distress. After the rescue, he tips his shiny helmet and bids you a good day. He won’t even let you see his face. You see, in his mind it’s all not worth it, but it is a part of life. Just take the love out of it since you have no heart anyways, and keep marching on. Knees to chest dammit.

I get to hear the stories because I grew up wearing my sown sort of armor too, just for fun though. It seemed the way to do things. Everyone had their own kind of armor on. Be and act tough on the outside, I decided. I alone see what’s on the inside after all. I ridiculed the weak, needy and clingy damsels always at the top of their towers waving their white handkerchiefs. Why go through all the painstaking drama when you can plot a way out? And I did. Each and every time I found myself in a precarious tower situation. I seemed brave. We were armor mates, and we let each other in on the secret. So, to him I was an equal.

The damsels weren’t though. To him, or to myself. I keep telling him that even a prince needs a Rapunzel with magic tears and glowing hair each time she sings. Nope. He won’t accept his Fitzherbert name. He wants to be Flinn Rider the whole time. God, you should see his smolder. There is a reason I wear armor, and won’t let it off. Not for him. Not for anyone.

I’ve got this friend. He thinks that all he really wants is someone to love him back. It’s a fancy notion that he keeps in his head to fool everyone else into thinking that, that is what he is looking for and seeking. But that’s not true. He just wants to learn to love himself. He won’t say, he won’t show; he will just be glad to receive, when and if he does. I think it’s endearing sometimes. Which is why I see so many other guys act out like he does; freak out and panic when he gets what he is looking for, and pine over it when its gone. Typical.

Other times it’s just out right annoying. Why? Because I am the one seated there listening to him mope each time the cycle hits end; and a few months later, there we are on repeat. If you want to be loved, say it, already. Don’t be such a cry baby about it. Coward. No one is self-sufficient. Even Edward Rochester capitulated to his unwanted daughter’s governess. So, as I said, it can be annoying. But a bit of it is endearing. Just a bit.

We spend a lot of random time together chanting our motto, “Serendipity” and singing our postmodern anthem, we shout and hurrah! We are the new romantics. Nothing is going to take that away from us. We do what we want when we want. We don’t get in trouble because we don’t and when we do, it’s the coolest thing ever! We tell ourselves every day, we will never die; and we seriously believe it.

We are so big; we fill up every room we enter. We make everyone else feel they are missing out on what the true construct of life is, which is letting loose. So, we call that girl in the library a grandma, and find sweet joy when we and see her realize it in herself, and show it on her face right as we leave or walk out. We are the thing you see, but doesn’t exist. You see us coz we will make noise and raise hell until you do, so really, you must. But we don’t exist because we don’t deserve to. We are spineless, inconsiderate and entitled young uns. We are a much more intense Lord of the Flies waiting to explode on all those around us, and ourselves.

We spend random afternoons sipping on that punched Pina colada, and re-watching Chicago. After it’s done, we compare its cinematography to Lala Land and make our remarks, being contentious for the sake; each one trying to show the other we know something they don’t. Yet in truth we know nothing, for what is of use to know, we don’t. Then we hit a snag in the argument and have to watch Entrapment to decide where Catherine Zeta Jones was the better actress. As we always do, we agree to disagree for the sake of our friendship. We threaten to push the boundaries. The unsaid rule is, don’t push them.

One of us usually feels hungry, so one of us offers to go get a rolex or make a sandwich or something. The other turns on the music and probably picks Florence and the Machine’s. “How big, How blue, How beautiful”, for all the wrong reasons. As the sandwiches are eaten we plan to find the rest of our friends. Our kin. The ones just like us.

There’s usually a “plan” somewhere. Those plans are mostly another movie with the same discussions entailed and just more food and music. Wannabe hippies in another type of counter cultural context.  The hippies would be so glad and as well so disappointed we weren’t into pacifism and philanthropy.

So, as we wait for the “plan” confirmation over Whatsapp or whatever, we watch another movie, probably Fault in Our Stars, since I picked it. We laugh so much at, and mock the futility love itself, and the purported point of it. Another discussion ensues, because somehow somewhere, we disagree on the causes of futility. He thinks love is futile because it always ends, so why try. I think its futile for the same reason and another different one. We probably once again decide to agree to disagree with a casual, “sawa” or an emphatic “anywho.”

A brief lapse of silence interjects at this point.

I look out that random window as random wind blows the curtains and shakes the chimes to sing a random song. He picks up a random item and pretends to study some random fascination about it. In the end, we both are randomly tapping our phones.

In that randomness, I usually sigh and wish to myself; if only the right one came. I find myself gravitating always to the vanity and meaninglessness of life. Maybe that’s why I must put on the best show. It’s part of my kind of armor remember.

At about that same time, he runs his hands through his hair and thinks the same thought; if only the right one came along. He just figures they will or they won’t and shrugs it way as he opens the Tinder app on his phone.

My thoughts continue…. It would be a shame…He ponders…she sounds lovely. Together we look to ourselves and inwardly say the words to ourselves we thought again and again about, before. We don’t even know why we are saying them. There’s just this grand opportunity to pretend something that isn’t really there is.

If. Only.

If only he’d put his heart back in his chest again. If only she’d throw hers away. If only he’d just admit we like different music. If only she’d stop pretending she can contend with my favorite genres. If only he’d talk about this elephant in the room. If only she would just pretend there’s nothing to address. If only she’d take a risk. If only he’d be more deliberate. If only he would realize he needs people. I’d only she would stop trying to fix everything. If only he would give it a thought. If only she’d let this go.

I let out a sigh hinting frustration with my thoughts.

He completely understands and turns as if to want to tell me something.

My eyes widen with inquisition…

Then just like that the rest of our friends come in telling us it was much easier to convene where we were. They brought another movie. One of them emphasizes it was in the best motion picture category of the Oscars this year. Bla Bla Bla. Another says they brought more food. Someone says they need to leave early though. We all agree after the movie we’ll go home. Yeah right.

I snap into all this by helping the one with the food. I take it to the kitchen.

He removes the music and puts in the movie.

When I get back, I dim the lights so we can all watch. I settle in on the other side of the room from where he is. He sinks in his chair and puts his glasses on.

I sigh and resign to the probability of serendipity. It’s our motto. Right?

He pauses the movie to make a random joke. Everyone laughs.

I make the decision to laugh a few seconds after everyone else, obliging to his stance.

Take your serendipity things the other side, nyabo.

Iss not a husband. Iss a buddy.

Serendipity has no place here.