Nostalgia can be a wave that cleanses, or a tide that drowns; so I tell myself every afternoon, when I wake up to what I like to call morning. (Routine is so overrated). Perhaps I’m going slightly mad, but at 26, in the throes of my twenty third episode of unrequited love, I have to ask a few crucial questions, which take me back in time.

Firstly, is it normal for a heterosexual male to discover that his true love, the one soul-mate in whom he finds solace, is a dead homosexual? Secondly, is Freddie Mercury in heaven? We’ll begin with the first, as to be unexpected from one who finds routine anathema to happiness.

Our affair started when he died. One cold November afternoon, at the age of five,  I came home from school to faintly overhear my mother telling my brother: “The…Queen… is dead”. My state of shock was quickly eased into indifference as the blanks were filled in with “…lead singer of…Freddie Mercury…”. With no idea of what she meant, I buried my head back into Janet and Allan Ahlberg’s The Jolly Postman.Readingwas my thing, not music. Little did I know, in just over 24 hours, it would manifest they were talking about the love of my life; my distant companion and emotional guide through the turmoil of life’s heartaches. The following night, a wreath of white lilies was to turn into a bed of roses.

On said evening, sitting in the living room with my head buried in a book my memory cannot recall, my gaze became transfixed to the screen as the sound of the most beautiful, passionate voice to ever bless the planet shot into my ears. Watching the BBC’s Freddie Mercury Tribute Programme, I felt his energy pumping through my veins, watching, in awe, his on stage stride and theatrical hand gestures but most importantly, subconsciously absorbing, through lyrics, his insight into the paradox of human nature, for later comfort.

At the end of the programme I recall telling myself: this is the way to live life; with colourful passion. Unfortunately, years of dull maths, physics and chemistry teachers since put paid to that.

A few days later I had a copy of Queen’s Greatest Hits II and within hours, lyrics such as: “A young fighter screaming, with no time for doubt” became inscribed in my soul, eternally.  Is it any wonder motivation has always been recognised as my greatest strength? (Perhaps I should be less honest about the root of my self starter attitude. In all job interviews, where I thought honesty was appreciated, when asked where my motivation came from I, for a rather verbose creature, succinctly responded, “Freddie Mercury”. Maybe all my interviewees have been homophobes or maybe it was just a non-fitting answer for the corporate world; I now make a living as a freelance writer).

The lyrics to songs such as Breakthru and It’s a Hard Life would later help me through some of the most darkest days of my existence. Indeed, “life is tough on your own…”

Fast forward through twenty broken hearts and we end up in 2008.  The year before, for some odd reason (to be elaborated another time) I, as a so called liberal Muslim, somehow ended up adopting traditionalist, absolutist thought. My Freddie moustache lost its distinction by connecting with a new spurt of facial hair across my cheeks. I felt I had betrayed my beloved. But, as he taught me as a young child: love kills, and the death it caused in me threw me right back into his arms.

For that year, brainwashed by my own material insecurity and desperately seeking solid ground, I experimented with my treasured religion and let me just say, I took things a bit too far, moving from its centre ground to the right wing. However, my libido saved me. With an (unfulfilled) sex drive higher than that of Freddie, Hendrix and Prince put together, my lust could not be stopped by a burka. Spending most of my days in mosques, the catching of unintentional glances from sweet, diamond like eyes, behind mysterious face veils, saw me thrown out by Mullahs for trying to seduce their daughters with my spiritually erotic poetry. “Love is an attribute of God. As his pious worshippers, let us make it, passionately, without restriction” read the subtlest line.

Since my desire for love was again unrequited, the torment left me in a vacuum. Being a pseudo fundamentalist for a year meant I had thrown out my music collection (and torn down all my Freddie posters). With no girlfriend and this time no Freddie to see me through the pain of loneliness with songs like Too Much Love Will Kill You, I went into emotional breakdown. What can one expect under pressure? I was offered counselling. Instead, I chose to download the complete works of Queen. I was saved. Dear Freddie, “whenever this world is cruel to me, I’ve got you to help me forgive…you’re my best friend”.

A year later, at the culmination of a philosophy degree, a different love affair with another moustached Freddie, more commonly known as Nietzsche, began. Still recovering from the straitjacket of absolutist theology, I found peace, and God again, in his Dionysian art. However, with the intense silent study that final year philosophy required, and with the first year in many in which my heart was not broken, I found no presence for the real Freddie in my life. Sometimes those deepest in love need time apart.

But for a romantic like me, heartache is never far away, and so Freddie will always be needed in my life. Thus today, with another broken heart – perhaps the last – as this may be the one that kills me, I ask myself, am I wasting my time chasing after the one woman who I think can make my life more than bearable? Or is Freddie all I need? Or is it the case I keep falling into heartache by subconsciously projecting the turmoil of Freddie’s songs onto my world. Is Freddie the cure or cause?  Is the nostalgia of his music cleansing me or drowning me? To be, or not be?

Pending existential crisis aside, let me assume Freddie is the cure. Where does that leave the soul of my beloved? If I am never to find love outside my affair with Freddie, I need to be certain he’ll be waiting for me inParadisewith a bouquet of flowers and a book of handwritten poetry.

Confused, I went to visit my local Imam. I began: “In the Quran it says: ‘He who saves a life, it is as if he has saved the whole of mankind’. Now, Freddie has saved me from attempted suicide on several occasions. That is, if overdosing on Lucozade can kill you. I’m sure he has saved countless others too. However homosexuality is a grave sin in Islam and Freddie, was more of a rampant Romeo to Johns than Julietts. I know you can’t speak for God, but please help me rest easier at night by telling me if you think it is possible for Freddie to be forgiven.” I walked in with a question; and came out with a black eye.

So there you have it. Freddie and I, two people from two different worlds, one dead, the other alive and yet we have a functioning relationship that most people would say should never have worked.

Yet, something isn’t quite right is it? This isn’t healthy. I get the feeling what I believe to be my medicine might be my poison. Am I drowning in the tide? I want to break free….

Nafees Mahmud is a freelance writer based in London. He blogs at www.nafeesmahmud.com