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That struggle when you need to figure out the perfect discription to listening to someone chop someones hand off without being able to see it....the struggle is real my dudes.
"I just want to say thank you all for the kindness. Since I love to write, I wrote this:"
"I donât think Iâm special for being a gay man. Thatâs not why I came out. I didn't come out so all of you could say âi knew itâ based on the clothes I wear or the way I dance. I never even thought Iâd have to come out.
Iâd be the 50 yr old living with dogs hiding my relationships living on a beach somewhere. Maybe then iâd be comfortable with it. But it was last summer, writing songs for the new album, being so fed up with âhidingâ and being so ready to be âfreeâ that I poured my heart out into music more than Iâd ever had before. Music indeed was my first love. Not a boy. It was music that I had always had a torrid love affair with. I felt I owed him, the music, or her, the song. I had to be honest with that relationship.
It was the moment I let myself write about the years spent in falling for my straight friend or the song I let myself write about thinking it was ok to be alone forever because it was better than explaining myself. It was those truths that came out before I decided to. You canât hide away forever. I don't think i was even trying. But music never let me lie. Something always would come out in the songs.
So now you know what you may have always assumed. Good for you. How does it feel? Do you want a âgaydarâ award? Do you want to be pat on the back because you can âspot themâ?
It is not news. It is not meant to be salacious. Until you know what itâs like to hide, to keep away true happiness out of fear. Thatâs when you truly understand what itâs like. Itâs not about coming out to wave a flag in anotherâs face. At least itâs not for me. For me its about finding the purist of peace. The absolute settling of my soul. The clearest vision of the road I want to take.
Iâm 30. I donât want to die anymore. I want to really live. Honestly, and fully. What an amazing place to be. For me it was a place I never cared about. Now all I want is to be honest.
Thatâs what this whole âcoming outâ thing is for me. Itâs been quite a real and beautiful day to have so much compassion and love coming from strangers, fans that have been there since the beginning, new fans, family, friends. For someone like me, the eternal self deprecator, i just want to say thank you.Â
I guess the last thing I want to say tonight and for now is if you're like me, a wanderer, a questioner, a soul searcher, a dreamer, or misunderstood for any reason at all: Come out.
Come out as a wanderer. Come out as a questioner. One day it wont matter. But it still does. Come out as YOU. Thatâs all I really can say. Thatâs what iâd say to me at 21, the scared return mormon missionary who knew this part of himself but loved God too. You can do both. Donât let anyone tell you you canât.
All my love and hope, and for now, back to the music.
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Sometimes, I'm just not sure how to start a story.
 A story, our story, any story; I just can't figure out the beginnings of things, and it's frustrating. I'm not a very poetic person; though my words are all I have, I know that I don't ever impress you with them. I spin tales all the time, but whenever I'm trying to turn spun truths to you, the words turn sour on my lips and to cotton on my tongue. I simply can not figure out the easiest way to put strings of words together into logical sentences when it comes to you, and that's why I try to write about people who aren't you, or me, or people we know. If I make things happen to someone else, someone who isn't real, then I can forget all the things that are or are not happening to me. Some might call that a disillusion, I call it make pretend.
Sometimes a little bit of us falls into the words; the curve of your lip turning into a delicious plot point, or the embarrassment I've brought upon myself earlier this morning dripping syllables into my sentences. I can't pretend everything you do doesn't contribute to every written word I've made in the past years. You inspire me, but you knew that, didn't you?
 I think you know, really, about everything that I write, about how every word and every line and every little plot twist is secretly dedicated to you, and how every happy ending I write, I write for us. Even though you have a life outside of me, outside of this thing we've created between the two of us, and I know that I"m just holding on to something that will never come to be.
 I'm a little bit of a spun tale myself, aren't I?
 I use you like a muse, aiding me in every ridiculous story I write, and although I know you read them, I can't help but feel you aren't really reading them. That you don't get it, you don't understand what I'm trying to say, because you're not seeing what I'm writing just for you to see. You're seeing what the rest of the world is allowed, the story that's up front and not the underlying story that I cleverly placed in between the lines just for you. You use to see that story, but now....
 Now, I feel like you're not getting anything that I say, and that maybe, it's time I give up. Because who wants to hold on to something that is obviously well past it's expiry? I know you're not seeing things the way I do any more; you've become someone different, someone who doesn't need me as much as I need you, and that's what makes this all so very hard when I try to write and get stuck, stranded on the opening, stuck on the beginning.
 And while I may be shitte at beginnings, I'm beginning to think that I'm spectacular at writing endings; and ours might be my greatest masterpiece ever.
 Fuck you, because you never notice me, even though I'm standing right in front of you, clinging to your every word and trying to be the better person. Fuck you, because I try, and try, and you just don't see me. I'm not as strong as you think, and this, this being without while you're standing right there, I can't do it. Not any more. I want to, I want to be able to laugh and smile and ignore all these feelings for you, but I can't, and it kills me, it makes my breathe stop in my lungs, stale and empty and hollow, like my heart- which breaks every moment we're together, and every second we're apart. I can't comprehend how you can't notice me, my undying, unfettering, unrealistically awed love for you; I'm huge, I'm larger than life, I'm Right. In. Front. Of. You. You're my entire life, from day one, from the moment we met, and now, now....
Now you're with him. You're with him and you don't even see me, and how much I'm in love with you.
 It's not the foolish high school love that everyone else feels. I need you; without you, the sun doesn't shine, the world doesn't turn, and nothing, no one, life itself doesn't matter.That;s why I don't leave, even though it kills me to see you with him. Best bros don't do that; no matter if watching as he breaks you, soul and heart and mind and body, I'll stay, and I'll console, and I'll listen to each episode of 'he forgot' and 'i hate it when' . And no matter how much I want to hunt him down each time he hurts you, I won't.
 Because I love you.
 Even if you don't love me, even if you don't see me as anything more than Samson, the boy who follows your every word, the best friend who's the shoulder to cry on. Even if I were Samson, the nobody, Samson, the heartbroken, Samson....
 Just Samson.
 I'll always be YOUR Samson. I'll always want to be with you, always want to make you smile, hear you laugh. I want to be the wind in your sails, the sun in your sky. I want to be the first thing you think of in the morning, the last thing you think of at night. I want that, I want it so bad, I want YOU so bad. I want, and I want, and I NEED....
 But I'll never have, I'll never be anything more than just Samson....simple Samson.
 Instead, I'll just smile, and laugh, and be empty, deliciously, deceivingly empty on the inside. And when I can't deal with it any more, when you smile at me or laugh at an inside joke or cry because he's ruined your trust for one last time, I'll carry on, and carry on, and on the inside I'll continue to be empty, to be dead and void and numb. Some days I look at you, and all I see is my nothingness, a blank slate, an empty jar to be filled with love and still, nothing but sorrow will find it's way in. You're in every song I write, every note and every down beat and damn it, Jude, just...Damn it.
 Because I can't do this much longer. I'm trying to hold on, but every time you mention him, every time an argument with your siblings gets out of hand, or Aid forgets to call, or Nathanial gets high and...does what he does. Every time you try to understand why, every time you hurt, every time I have to try and hold all the pieces in, it's breaking me apart. And I don't know how much longer this glue will hold, and I don't have any tape to keep me going. My heart is a beautiful disaster, and you are the cause. I wish I could leave, that I could wash my hands clean of you, of every thing you do, of every thing you are. But I can't. I want to, and I can't,, and it's killing me, Jude.
 Because even if I'm you're sweetest downfall......I loved you first.
Rainy Sundayâs were the best Sundayâs, in Elias' opinion. The tinny sound of the raindrops hitting the roof of the car, the intricate designs of the rain falling on the windshield, making pictures before the wipers wiped them out of existence. The rain cooled off the car where they were parked on the side of the road, passing a lit cigarette between them. It was a cool autumn night, the sort of night that the two of them had no place else to be, nothing else to do but sit around in the rented car, an attempt to escape the two young men theyâd left behind in the hotel room.
 The car was shut off, but the radio on; the soft sounds of Doris Day drifting out into the smokey silence. âYou sigh, a song begins, you speak and I hear violins..â Blair glanced across the car at his friend, smiling softly as Elias' shy tenor smoothed over the lyrics of the song playing. âIt's magic, the stars desert the skies, and rush to nestle in your eyesâŚâ both front seats were pushed as far back as theyâd go, positioned so they were both nearly laying straight back.
 âItâs magic.â Blairâs words were spoken, the shared cigarette switching hands easily between the two as Elias smiled, bringing the cigarette to his lips. They had left Ben and Michael asleep in the hotel room they were all sharing, fast asleep in one of the beds as theyâd crept out the door. âYou know, I like it when you sing. I wish Ben and Mike would let you more often.â Elias' smile was small, and his hand shook slightly as he handed the smoke back to his friend.
 âMânot a singer, Blair. Iâm a guitarist. You ought to get to sing more, though. Youâve a right lovely voice.â Blair snorted, shaking his head as he shifted to lay on his side, his long legs stretching out under the steering wheel. Thin hands slid under a sharp cheek, and bright blue eyes stared at the man sitting across from him.
 âI like how you sing, Eli. I like your voice. Plus we all know drummers can't sing.â Elias blushed slightly, shifting to lay on his side as well; his toes barely brushing where car floor met dashboard. His hands drew up under his cheek, green eyes blinking lazily as he stared at Blair. He didnât know how his friend could say some of the things he said with a straight face.
 âYouâre crazy, mate. Dâya think that Mike and Benâll miss us if they wake up?â Blair chuckled, bringing his knees up to rest on the seat of his seat. His thoughts drifted to their two band mates, who, when they had left them, had been curled up together, sleeping like babies.
 âI donât think so, mate. They probably wouldnât notice if we never showed up again. You know how they are. But weâll be back before they wake up, we donât have anything to do tomorrow, theyâll sleep in until noon. â Blair reached out, swiping one slim finger along the spattering of freckles on his friends face. âWeâll be fine. Have you decided what youâre to do on your holiday, mate?â Elias shrugged, handing Blair the smoke as he let out a small yawn.
 âNot sure, no. Iâve been so busy helping Ben and Michael figure out what theyâre to do for holiday, I havenât even thought of what Iâd do. You?â Blair shrugged as well, shifting onto his back as he stared at the roof of the car.
 âNo, not really. Figured Iâd tag along to whatever you did, really. I mean, if thatâs okayâŚ.I hadnât really made any plans. What are Bee and Mikey doing?â Elias chuckled, turning his gaze to the roof as well as he thought back on the conversation heâd had with the other two boys earlier that week.
 âWell, I think they decided on going to a beach some whereâs, possibly camping. I havenât been camping inâŚ..well. A long time. â He paused, looking over at Blair with a smile, and Blair smiled back. âWhat do you think of camping, ducky? Think it might be something youâd like to do?â Blair shrugged, putting his hands up behind his head and grinning wide at the thought of camping out with his closest friend.
 âOnly if you promise to sing camp fire songs, mate.â
