My dream.

2038-01-19T03:14:07Z

Mostly I live pretending to have never known this fellow named Matt Kellegrew. But every so often he appears in my dream just as he ever was, and I feel just as profoundly as ever my love for him. He was my first love and he shaped me incredibly.

Let me introduce you to my love:

Some of you know Matt Kellegrew and some of you don't. I will tell you how I know him.

It's true that at many points I have found myself regretting that I love him. Because he can be an asshole. A big asshole. A huge asshole. A big, huge asshole. But look:

He was my reason for opening up, my reason for learning my sexuality, my reason for going to SSIC rehersals, my reason for reading and wanting to learn and walking around barefoot and writing poetry and going to writer's club and sitting under the tree at lunch.

At one time, he wanted me. He came up to me first. He courted me. It was lovely. But I was incredibly naive. Pity, because soon thereafter he caught the disease known as Aimee Mastrolonardo. Soon he told me things like, "I can't look into your eyes anymore, I have a girlfriend." When we did look into each other's eyes at that time, it was the most magnetic and electric feeling I've ever felt. Gone.
It would not be until September my Sophomore year that I would hold his hand in the movie theater, he would tell me while shaking and avoiding my eye contact that he "really like you, I don't know what to do" and he would tell Aimee that he felt like seeing other people.

This did result in the eventual breakup of the two of them, though it was by no means the only factor. However, Matt and I would never be. We never even kissed.

Well, we kissed once. Softly. On the lips. And he tasted like nicotine. And it was probably the most tender kiss either one of us has ever really partaken in. It was just before he left on his trip to Canada.

I would see him again and again. But we would never be. Sometimes he would look at me in a way reminiscent of how he used to. Sometimes he would not look at me at all.

I always assume that I'll see him again, as if it's inevitable. As if he remembers me. Which he probably doesn't, and all these things that I hold onto dearly mean absolutely nothing to him, other than he wanted to fuck me at one point (and would have too, but for my naivity).

Thus, I will conclude the entry with my memory of him as we used to paint the girl's lockerroom. Lance will remember this too.

It's strange how I can return so easily at the thought of him to that very same freshman girl. How much I miss it.

Because I am a young Brian Kinney.

My dream.