Thirty minutes to 12 and I have not even started my coming out post.
Maybe because I never really felt the need to come out.
I have always been out. At a tender age of 3, I knew I was gay and people around me were gay. It seemed as if our village was planting and harvesting homosexuality and we are shipping them to every part of the country.
The issue never really struck me until a friend of mine from college was refused entry to a bar. Simply because he was a cross-dressing, wig-wearing and well-made up bakla.
A few years later, I met the same old friend. Except this time, he was bemuscled, no tinge of foundation on his face and was talking in a baritone. Noticing how queasy I was, he gave his one-liner: I need to work to live.
That got me. Fitting yourself into that square so you can be hired. Going one step back into the closet just so you can earn. And finally, earn enough to buy yourself a plane ticket to Ibiza. Or simply run away.
Four minutes more and I am still not finished.
I guess it takes more than one post to grope with the complex process of coming out as it is years to come out.
We have demons, big and small, to fight, even before and after we come out of the closet.
One has to calculate each and every move to win the struggle. But then, it may be a collective battle altogether.
And my two minutes are up.
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