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He will C G C lead us beyond the rain [Chorus] C F C G C Beyond the rain, they'll be no more dying, no more crying, no more pain C F C When.
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I'm so sorry, Eric. You didn't deserve that. I thought about all this, lying back on the grass as the cool water ran over my toes, as the sun warmed me. My shirt off, I could feel the breeze play across my chest and wished only for someone to be lying beside me. Str8 people think that gays are attracted to anything that moves, that they have sex with anything that breathes.

I kinda think that would make me like my dog, Barnaby. He sniffs bottoms and humps just about anything that walks. He's a huge chocolate lab, but will try to do a schnauzer or even a weiner dog. I may see the hottest guy and jones like crazy, but then that smallish boy in my history class with the soft blond hair and crystal blue eyes would be who I'd want to touch, to talk to, to feel something for.

I'm a walking hard-on just like any other seventeen year old, but I have my standards and I know what my taste is. I may be gay in a world where there are only two or three other gay guys, but that doesn't mean I would find out about one of them, run up to him and sigh, "I love you" just cause he's like me. I totally check-out any boy who crosses my vision, but I do think it would be so much simpler if gay boys gave off some kind of glow, an aura that only we could see. My friends all date, girls of course, and don't hesitate to share every detail.

I don't think they do half of what they say, but maybe they do. According to them, every girl in our school is totally fuckable and gives it out like candy on Halloween. That's sad if it's true, plus out of the 42 gay kids hiding somewhere here in these noisy halls, some have got to be lesbians, so some are definitely not ummm, boy fuckable. It's getting tougher for me not to get into the talk. I date when I have to, but I apparently have found the only girls at Bitterroot who have brains and can keep their panties on. I really think they appreciate not having to put out to be popular.

God, that's so sad. I want to go to college and learn to be an architect. I want to live in a big city where no one knows my name and I can be me. I want to burn these jeans and flannel shirts and wear clothes that make me look good.

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I want to go to museums and plays and learn about music and painting. I want to eat different foods and drink wine. I want to make friends with people like me and look for someone who will love me. I won't look too hard at first and I won't panic at 25 if I haven't found him. These are my promises to myself. I may not get it all, but I'm going to try. I believe that I need something to offer someone for them to want me too and I won't have what I need until I'm older and gone from here.

Of course I would love to have a boyfriend right now, just like my friends all have girlfriends, holding their hands and feeling their way through first time sex. Feeling like someone cares just for me, hears me when I talk, listens to my dreams and my hopes. But, I've figured out that it's different for me. Life's much harder and what I should be doing right now, learning to grow up, learning how to handle my hormones, will have to wait.

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Of course, if the right boy came along, all this would turn out to be total bullshit. If one of the 42 hidden gays here at my school suddenly appeared, I'm not sure what would happen. I talk a big talk because I have to make myself believe in my dreams. It's the way I get through. I can't wait to go to college.

I've had a few good teachers in high school, but most of them are just pulling a paycheck and don't give a crap whether we learn or not. The only class I really like this year is Psych. Cantor is pretty cool and lets us talk. He doesn't just sit at his desk and lecture for 45 minutes.

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He asks us to think. Psych is the only time I see Aaron Sorensen. We used to be friends when we were little, but he went one way and I went another. He had money and I didn't. His family was way into church and my family wasn't. Nothing in common, so our paths never crossed. I always watched him in Psych class, flirting and laughing. Everyone loved Aaron; girls wanted him and guys wanted to be him. He would kill me if he could hear what I was thinking, but he is really pretty, all that long shiny brown hair and those laughing eyes.

He's always been cute, but the older he gets, the better he gets.

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With his history though, he is definitely not one of the I just lay quietly in the sun, my horse Chaco nuzzling my face, snickering for a treat. I knew I had to get back to work, but the post hole digger was heavy and the sun felt so good. The next day was Friday and we had a Psych test. I noticed that Aaron was absent. That was really weird cause his parents were real strict about him missing school.

I remember him coming to school once in third grade with a bad cold. He felt so bad and finally threw up. He was out one day and then he was back, still looking pukey. I remember feeling sad that his mom made him come back so fast. I took my test, tossed the paper in the basket at the corner of Mr. Cantor's desk, frowned at the empty desk where Aaron usually sat and walked out into the hall to hook up with my friends. I forgot about Aaron as we scuffled and made our way to gym. He would be back on Monday and besides, he wasn't in my world anyway. The weekend ran along as usual.

I loved Saturday and Sunday. They were like my days to be myself. I could ride Chaco to work at the feed store and then ride him out into the desert on my long shortcut home. Riding out there, the scent of honeysuckle strong in the air, the sage brush drifting in the breeze, I felt alive.


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There was always a small tight ache in my heart that I always took these rides alone, but I knew this was my private time. I'd never bring anyone out here unless he was like me. When I was very small, I lured a chipmunk into a Hav-a-hart trap and brought him home proudly. I kept him penned in a fish aquarium tank for three days, feeding him nuts and stuff. What I had loved about him was the way he jumped and ran, all full of life and energy.

In the tank, he stopped. He just tried, all day, to scrabble his way out through the glass. I sat there, watching him, and even at seven, I knew what he wanted. He wanted his freedom back. I felt like that chipmunk now. I felt like I was in a giant glass tank, peering out a world I wanted to run to, trying to scrabble my way out. The world around me was beautiful, clean and free, but I wasn't.

I was in a cage not of my own making; a cage the world had created to hold me in. I had kept my feelings quiet for five years. I could do it for one more. One more and I could be me. I let him go. I took him back to the very place I had found him, thinking his family would be very worried. I hope he is a great granddaddy now, living clean and free. I worked around the ranch for the rest of my Saturday and Sunday.

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It was hard work, but my dad counted on me to be there for him. It was hard being the foreman, loving the land and the livestock, but not owning any of it. He worked hard and expected no less from me. I had my job at the feed store after school and on Saturday mornings. The money helped me fit in with clothes for school and gas for my truck.

I saved any extra for college; for my dream. Saturday night was party night. Living in a small town, there's not much to do, so we made up 'games'. Tailgate skiing was always on, where you stood on the tailgate of a truck, holding onto ropes tied to the toolbox and they drove really fast in circles, trying to throw you off. If you stood really tight, your legs spread, your feet pushing into the steel, you made it. If you relaxed, you flew off.

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Flying off hurt and the next time, you didn't relax. My friends were all getting some from their girlfriends in parked cars or in the woods. I would always dance with the girls who had come alone, so that everyone could see that I was having a good time. It was weird, but if one day, when I'm a world famous architect, and people ask me where I get my creativity, I'm gonna think back to all the years I spent planning and trying to avoid being found out.

It takes a lot of imagination to wiggle your way in and out of what, for everyone else, is a normal party. Monday morning, tired from my weekend, I fed Chaco, did my chores and got to school just as the first bell was ringing. The day went along as usual, boring with a few bits of humor and the explicit tales of who did what to who Saturday night. I always find it confusing".

Str8 guys will call someone they think weak or weird 'pussy' in the same tone they say 'fag'. I've always thought that they put girls kinda on the same level they do gays. Now, that's a really sad thought. I mean, "You pussy" and "You fag" can be applied to the same exact situation, like a kid who can't climb the rope. I don't guess str8s have a lot of respect for anyone else. I suppose that str8s does overpower 42 gays, but that doesn't make them better, just stronger and louder. I walked into Psych, anxious about my test grade.

I really needed an A or a B to keep my grade. Life mileage and grace found through loss and misfortune helps to fully empathize with the message of liberation housed within "Beyond the Rain". Music being the great healer for many, it's extra special when shared between lovers, much less creative partners. NET story or review, you must be logged in to an active personal account on Facebook.

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