We were watching Boogie Nights, and in the movie, Scotty’s wasted at the New Year’s party. He tries to kiss Dirk, but Dirk throws him off. I asked her if she knew Scotty was gay. Until that point, I thought he never gave off any such sign.

“Of course”, she said.

“How could you tell?”. I had to ask, because I couldn’t tell. I’ve watched Boogie Nights with dozens of people before, and they’ve all asked if Scotty was gay before it even got to this scene. It must have been the 20th time I’ve seen this movie, but I still didn’t see what so many others did. My gaydar can’t be that bad, I thought to myself.

“Just from the way Scotty looks at Dirk all dreamy”.

Dreamy? So Scotty wasn’t being particularly flamboyant, he was simply attracted to Dirk. It was obvious to everyone but me.

Then I recalled Pat telling me a few years ago that a certain girl liked me. He didn’t have some kind of inside knowledge, he said he could tell just from the way she looked at me. I never believed him, of course, because I had no inkling of such an message. I never believed him until she gave me a written confession.

It took me almost a year to be comfortable enough to photograph Jenn (let alone getting over being so tongue-tied around her), because I was afraid of being too transparent. I always thought that by asking to take her picture, everyone could see how attracted I was to her. I would go around Aaron’s parties and photograph anyone but her. Now I realize that in doing so, I probably gave myself away.

It’s scary to think that people may read me so easily from subconscious body language. A girlfriend once said that her mom asked how she would feel if I asked her out, about a month before I did. To this day I wonder how her mom knew I would. All we did was have dinner together on Sunday’s. Did I steal glances from across the table? Did I look away when she looked at me? Did I lose myself in her face and stare?

Am I that transparent?

I’d like to think that I can hide such things, but how can I when I don’t even recognize what it is I’m doing.

How can I hide my heart, when I don’t even know that I wear it on my sleeve?

Things have changed.

I don’t write the same anymore, or about the same things. I’ve lost my fervent verbosity. Every time I sit at my computer, my mind blanks. Writing has become a chore. Even this entry has taken me days to think through. I find myself writing and rewriting every point, every paragraph.

In the beginning, blogging was a form of catharsis. Developing cognitively beyond my adolescence was an emotional period, filled with confusion and growing pains. The only way I could make sense of it all was to write out my thoughts, forcing myself to reflect and learn from every challenge.

It was also a useful tool in figuring myself out, as a part of my life where I could approach things with the conviction that I lacked in the rest of my life. Now that I’ve gained enough confidence, it doesn’t seem so necessary to prove myself with words anymore. It would seem that I’ve become a victim of my own self-assuredness.

I could fill this blog with entries, finding solace in the written word, when I was going through something as simple as a bad day. As time has passed, I’ve eliminated most of the things that bother me enough to turn to this medium. It was a slow and systematic process, both internal and external. My new-found serenity has left me with little rage. I’m happier now, and happiness is too hard to write.

There have been few epiphanies, and even less inspiration, in the last while. Maybe it’s because I’m in the middle of a transition. It takes a foundation of stability, something I haven’t had in months, to grow. My life hasn’t quite settled yet.

Writer’s block is a sign that I’ve stopped growing, a testament to what and how much I’ve been through.

But more importantly, it’s a sign that I’m approaching where I want to go in my life.

They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.

—Andy Warhol

Many of my relationships, romantic or otherwise, are often approached, at least partially, based on the hope that the other person will change. This change can take the form of something as simple as promptness, as frustrating as tidiness, or as grand as self-centeredness.

Change, synonymous with improvement, has been the basis of my life. It takes a self-awareness of my faults, combined with a desire to change these faults, to improve. Assuming that others are the same way has been one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made. When the veil is lifted, and I realize that someone is stuck in their personality, I lose my faith in humanity. For the fraction of people who are conscious enough to know that they need to change, (and I mean this in an absolute sense, where almost anyone would agree that something needs improvement, such as temper or closed-mindedness) only a fraction of those are actually able to do so.

This means that when I meet someone, I either have to accept or reject them for who they are, because that’s most likely who they’re going to be for the rest of their lives. I have to stop accepting someone based on the hope that they will get better.

Acceptance, which has always been a difficult thing for me, thus becomes the most important thing in my relationships. It also remains one of the most hardest things for me to change.

So should I learn to accept this about myself, the way I should learn to accept things of others?

Over breakfast, a generous gorging of sausage links, over easy, and hashed browns, the realization dawns on me that out of the eight people seated, four of us have worked in the same office.

In fact, three of us had the same job; while Aaron was working as a developer, Pat was brought in to replace Jacques, and I was hired when Pat left. What a small world. That’s how Pat and I met Aaron, how Aaron met Jacques, and it was only on that day, four years later, that Pat was introduced to Jacques.

Now we can sit around a breakfast table, filling ourselves with greasy food and caffeine in preparation for a weekend of gaming.

How long ago those days seem, working in an unmotivated government office, dating someone I thought I wanted to make my wife. I remarked to Pat how funny it was to believe back then that I knew what I wanted in life, and with a smirk, he asked me, “You think you know what you want now?”.

The question was rhetorical, of course. Sometimes Pat knows me better than I know myself. In his way, he was reminding me that even now, after all my contemplation and all my conclusions, I still may not have figured that out yet.

Do I really know what I want?

Not really. In my career, my relationships, my short-term life I can say that there’s a path I’m moving towards, but I also know that this will most likely change. As I learn and grow, as new goals are met and made, what I want changes too.

And perhaps being sure of this is what I really want.