#& sam.

[ottofinch]

📲 SAM SLAYER.

otto: we need to talk

otto: i know you're reading this. don't ignore it

[ottofinch]

slurred words

“sam. light of my life, fire of my loins. i suppose it sounds corny to admit it aloud, but sam, he’s— i don’t know! have you ever met someone, and for some reason you can’t explain, you just feel pulled to them? like somehow, whatever way your lives navigate, your paths will always intertwine? should always intertwine. well that’s kind of what it’s like with sam… 

i don’t really remember how i met the guy. family holiday or something, or maybe we met online? and the vacation in paris came after? anyway, we used to write. letters and letters and letters. so much shit in those letters, and not at all poetic, or in any way coherent, but he listened when no other fucker would while i'd whine about how i’d been cast as horatio and not the eponymous hamlet, a role i worked for tooth and nail. other stuff. girls. boys. anyone pretty enough to stir me. what i thought of my professors. what i thought of my colleagues. 

and then, one day, sam standing on the quad, half out of a dream. selfishly, i thought he’d come to visit me. selfishly, i wanted him to myself.  though he was never mine to keep, not merely an idle pass-time, an imagined reader, but a man with several tearaway lives of his own. i contain multitudes, whitman once said. actors wear identities like hats, swapping one for another each day, some days benedick, other days lear. why should sam be allowed to do the same? 

perhaps this is sheerly… surely? the ramblings of a madman. but is it so cruel to think that perhaps the multiple strands that make up the boy i know don’t make him any less compelling; any less magnetic? i like to think that knowing him the way i do now, with the benefit of experience and the knowledge that he’s an imperfect beast, a lesson in rewriting the self, i am only drawn to him more.”