Lisbon boy.

Dear Lisbon boy,

Yesterday, you stole my heart. On a morning outside a small cafe in Sintra, while waiting for the arrival of a boy I met precisely a week ago, I texted my supervisor, as I normally do, when thoughts run my mind and Discord to readily available. I wanted to call him, but he said to be in the moment. He said falling in love is also important. In response I uttered, who said anything about love? He said, you flew across oceans to see this boy, sorry I assumed. Who said anything about love? Lisbon boy told me he felt comfortable around me because I felt comfortable around myself. Lisbon boy was witty. He was funny. He made me feel at peace. Who would’ve thought?

Lisbon boy listened. He listened to me talk about what it meant to be a good person, and why I believed truly intelligent people inevitably end up good people. He questioned me. He listened to me stumble and struggle to explain the big thoughts I had, the conclusions I’d drawn, but only followed with half-baked explanations.

My eyes closed. I talked. I went on. As Lisbon boy lay next to me on the Praia Grande, eyes gleaning over my soon-to-be-burnt face. I felt his gaze. And it gave me peace.

As he asked. I felt the answer coming to me. A thought I understood so well, but suddenly struggled to articulate. Like so many I had. But I got there. To sufficient degree. I told him, that there are bad people who are clever, and they can get very far. But they are always outsmarted. Because being bad is inherently contradictory to true intelligence. Because being bad is illogical.

No matter any material gains. The truly intelligent understand that mental state of mind is more important than all else. And badness, if not for all the other more important reasons, inevitably lends itself to a lifetime of looking over your shoulder, a lifetime of distress, or uneasiness. And that is just illogical.

Perhaps again I am giving the half-baked, single-branched, explanation. But there is more.

One of the other answers I gave Lisbon boy was that the point was that it is so complicated to understand, that only the truly intelligent can understand it. So the truly intelligent are always good. I told him that was a cop-out answer. And it really was. Time was finite. It needed a book.

Lisbon boy was shy, it did not experience much in his life. He had never been on an airplane. But Lisbon boy was special in ways that truly surprised me.

He told me woke up with utter hatred for the world. But he also showed me he managed it so well. Perhaps without meaning to prove it at all.

Lisbon boy was gentle. He listened. He asked. He did more than should have been expected of him.

Lisbon boy told me something I uttered on the phone to L earlier today. Something that solidified knowledge I never thought he’d help me do. This was not the only case.

But Lisbon boy told me that if we had met 2 years ago. If we did. He would have been scared. He would have said: “Fuck this, Block.” It made me think back to the others. The others I knew I understood. But this was proof. Proof when I was not even looking. Proof for what I already understood. But L and I laughed about it. We giggled because we both understood. But life’s proof just comes lagged.

Lisbon boy stole my heart. Without needing to. He was comfortable with himself. He said it was because I was comfortable with myself. But he figured himself out in more ways than he had the resources to. Lisbon boy was gentle. He was soft. He was nervous, but he was brave. He was clever.

As his fingers intertwined with my while he changed gears. With the excuse of teaching me how to change gears. “1, 3, 4”, “2, 1,4”, he goes. So smooth, so easy. I locked eyes with him. And I wanted to kiss him.

I wanted his mouth on mine. As his soul was already inside me.

Lisbon boy understood. He saw through me without trying. Without needing. Without learning.

Last night, as we lay in bed, shoulder to shoulder, he whispered, you were my first. I knew. But the words felt beautiful coming out of his mouth.

I hugged him from behind as he left at 5am, to arrive at work with 2 hours of sleep. Day-dreaming of the cute girl he met at a random McDonald’s. The one who returned a week later. The one who met his parents, and his dog. The one his dad remarked, had cute eyes. And the one who told him that that was very sweet.

Perhaps dissecting my thoughts is indeed something more worth my time than anything else, like S said. Perhaps I should stop trying to push my thoughts away, seeing them as distractions, but leaning into them. Because perhaps they are the things leading me really to somewhere bigger than anything practical will. But is thinking a waste of time? I think not. I’ve thought my way to things that no actions could shortcut. No achievements could prove. Because thinking is the proof. The conclusions are the proof. That is bigger proof than anything anyone could describe or put down on paper. And I know people see that. Because people have seen it. Because I have seen it.

I don’t judge people on their achievements. I judge them on the way they think. So why should I judge myself any differently. Why do I keep myself in shackles?