When Harry met Z

It's not sexy to be a pretty boy

I felt asleep, as usual, I always fall asleep listening to music, or after a huge exercise session (if you know what I mean). I fooled around enough, broke hearts and had my heart broken. I wanted more now. That's what I dreamt about last night,  I dreamt about having children, having a wife, having a home. Am I going nuts perhaps? Or is it that I am getting old.

This is Z btw. This is not Harry's diary any longer. You guys must have read his diary, and are probably tired of all the nonsense, am sure you must be guessing how is this going to end, right? You must be thinking who is who? Who is speaking, and who is telling the story, right? 

Okay. So, this is Z. Yes, Z. The one who everyone knows by now is better off with you know whom. Right?

I feel like a frustrated old man. I don't want to perform, don't want to be seen in public, don't want to follow my lust nor my intimate desires. That's me. I have become a version of myself that is running against the odds, running against my destiny. It was never in my mind to become what I was heading to become, I was afraid of everything I discovered, thus, I chose to go back to a path that is more familiar, calmer, I don't need earth shattering experiences, no matter how beautiful they are. 

It's almost like being high on drugs. Have you experienced that? 

I must be grateful for everything I attained, which is not bad. 

You must be thinking this story should end, and it should end on a happy note. You guys want a happy ending. Right? The last scene should be something like, Harry and I lying in bed, me holding Harry's torso, and him grasping my hands, right? Is this what you guys expect as an ending? Like, really? Really? 

One time, in a rush of joy, I wrote a song on a single shot. The song was dedicated to the person who had inspired those tingling sensations of joy unknown to me up until then. Sensations which had stayed, and will stay perhaps all my life carved in my memory. When we edited the video, I asked to put in a sentence as a foreword: "my heart will never be in peace until this love blossoms". You guys know which love I am talking about. I feel there are no secrets anymore.

I guess my heart will never be in peace. I will never be in peace, because that  love will never truly blossom. 

That's all I wanted to say. You see, I wanted to be a singer, a musician. I never wanted to be a pop-star. Really. 

I cried a lot, my tears slowly transformed into a solid rock, a mirror to see myself on it, that mirror often tells me that the object of my love has been slowly drifting away, as I am too, probably.

I never wanted our bond to end. But, things, people, the world, everything changes. He also changed. Just look at this:

This is not the person I remember. Don't take me wrong, I love him, always be. But the transformation he has gone through is...too much to handle for me. I feel I could never catch up with that. 

Didn't he become a pretty boy? 

Harry. The love of my life. I wish you could blend in more with the real people, like a working class hero. Instead you've become...someone I don't recognise anymore. 

You might say that I hang out with top-models and bleached blonds. Right? I know, you will say that. But, at least I am not pretending to be anything I am not. 

It's not sexy to be so pretty. It's not sexy to be so delicate. It's not sexy to want to perform all the time. It's not sexy to want to please others. I don't like it. Being with you will mean being exposed, again and again, and again.

I keep trying to think that maybe there is one way. I thought about different possibilities every night for a year straight, maybe we can run away to another country, maybe we can get married to each other , maybe we can quit being singers, maybe we can marry women we don't love and keep seeing each other, maybe we can come out of the closet and see what happens. The next day I would refute my own ideas only to be thinking about them by night again, and this repeated itself over and over again. Until I saw you transforming, metamorphosing into a stranger.