Before the days of embalming and advanced technology in the field of health care, it was possible to mistake someone for dead. Without the means to properly detect a faint heartbeat/pulse, some unfortunate people were assumed dead and buried alive. Scratch marks on the inside of exhumed caskets testify to the dark horror these victims experienced as they desperately tried to claw their way out before their dwindling source of oxygen was depleted. Being a bit claustrophobic myself, I can think of no more terrifying way to die. I think my sanity would be totally and completely gone way before the available oxygen in the coffin was exhausted.
Above ground, if I was locked in
a coffin, I would still freak... but if I knew I had six feet
of dirt above me, I just can't explain in words the sheer terror
I would feel. Above ground in a sealed coffin, or below ground,
I'm still going to run out of oxygen and die, but somehow there
is the smallest degree of hope that I might be rescued in time
if I am at ground level.
In some primitive cultures, a hollow pole with a rope or chord was rigged from the casket leading to a flag or a bell at the graveside. If a person was buried alive, he could pull the rope and signal someone. It was the caretaker's job to watch over the grave for a few days in case the device was activated. After about a week, the person was presumed really dead and the device was removed.
Beautiful, sexy, young Justin lives in this modern time, yet, in a way, he has been buried alive. He goes through the motions of living life each day, but the boy has no discernible emotional pulse or heartbeat. The issues of his coffin-like existence are not surface-level, either. They are laid out deep in the subterranean layers of his mind. The moment I met him I could hear the bell ringing above his proverbial grave. He's been pulling on that bell-rope for a long time, but no one has cared enough to hear it. I've said it in past journals many times before, but I'll say it again... the wisdom and guidance of fathers, big-brothers, mentors... "caretakers"... are so needed in our gay community. I meet young guys struggling with big issues all the time who have no one to turn to for help.
Back in the old days, before embalming, dead bodies were laid out on tubs of ice at the funeral home in order to slow down the decaying process. The room was packed with tons of flowers as a way to mask the odor of a decaying corpse. As I said, Justin is totally cute. He has received far more than his share of flowers... sex and romance... but it wasn't what he needed. What he needed was for someone to finally hear his ringing bell and unearth the issue that was slowly burying him alive.
In some occasions, clothes provided by the funeral home for the deceased have no backs. If the body was rolled to the side, it would be totally nude in the back. Ties or snaps are used to hold the clothes on and in place. Because of the initial stiffness of the body, it is sometimes hard to dress them in normal clothes. Even when the family of the deceased provides the clothing for their loved one, sometimes the back needs to be cut in order to dress the body.
Justin was dressed like that. I heard his alarm bell ringing. I knew he had a deeply-buried issue he wanted someone to address. I dug all the way down to where the issue was, and instead of letting me see it, Justin rolled over and hungrily offered me his ass. All of a sudden... right then and there... he wanted to be fucked. He begged for it. As if anyone with an ass as hot as his would ever need to beg for anything!
At first, I thought he might be trying to divert my attention from the big, bad secret he led me to believe he wanted to deal with. But then I realized his hot, sexy ass WAS the issue! Throughout our conversations he would say, "I'm just a fuck-toy for guys. Nobody has ever loved me for who I am." Yet, there he was, begging to be my fuck-toy when all I was trying to do was love him for who he was! I wanted to fuck him more than you can probably imagine. But I had already figured out if I did that, he would put me in the category with all of the other guys who used him and didn't love him for "who he was".
After I gently refused his begging a few times, he got scared. And I mean, REALLY scared! It was like he realized for the first time that he was buried under 6 feet of dirt and was running out of oxygen. He pulled his pants back up... hyperventilating... crying... and got ready to unearth his issue.
"So," I asked, "who are you?"
"I don't even fucking know!" he said. "I was hoping YOU could tell ME."
Justin used to have a pretty good idea as to who he was, but he lost it. Since the age of 14, users have conveyed through their actions that he was really nothing more than his hot sexy ass. He gives himself easily... always hoping the next guy will dig deeper than his ass and open up all of the things that make him who he is.
When I found Justin, a sense of "who he was" was buried alive. At that time, his gravestone might as well have read, "Here lies Justin. He had a hot sexy ass."
We are quite self-destructive as humans sometimes, ya know? We put ourselves into restrictive situations and behavior patterns that slowly but surely eclipse who we really are. It could be a dead-end career. It could be abusive, negative people we allow to surround us. It could be fear of this, that, or some other thing. And of course, we must add to this list of hermetically sealed coffins... the gay closet... inside which many guys are confined. We all have things that hold us back. Some of us are living more than 6 feet under the destinies that are ours. Living in a restrictive, coffin-like box is a sure-fire way to lose track of who we are. It leaves us feeling alone... alienated... with no outlet for true self-expression and development... faint emotional pulse/heartbeat... buried alive. It's a terrible way to live... and a terrible way to die.
The sound of bells are ringing everywhere in our community. Keep digging!
