I waited at the bar for her, doodling on the back of a business card. When she came I told her:
“I am thinking about all of the women I have loved before this moment and before you.”
I imagine their faces individually as I say this, each one smiling.
“And I wish I was with them more, right now, than ever.”
Although this is obvious fiction, I wonder if it ever did happen, and if these words could make it real otherwise. Somehow, in some seedy bar, an under-styled man tips his glass to mouth as he waits for a date he isn’t interested in. What I wrote making it real for someone else. The space between writing and living is so great, but it takes just a little mental leap to cross it, to colour in between the lines.
When I read or listen to someone else’s true story, I try to imagine where I was at the time of that tale. I quickly find that I don’t believe what they say. I just can’t trust that he was chatting with Tim Burton in London while I was shining my funeral shoes, or she was canoeing for three days in Australia while I was getting a few hours sleep before an exam. To me, the entire universe is in front of my eyes and any new element in my life existed not before or after, but just in our relationship to each other. There just can’t be any other way. I just don’t see how.
I sometimes think of it as a curse, to only be able to see the world from one point of view, forever experiencing one set of incidences, like a train that never changes tracks. I long to see the setting sun from a cliff edge in Arizona, or to be inches from the nose of a shark off the Indian coast. I want to do these things, but with the additional parallel of being somewhere else, as someone else - to freeze in Russia and sweat in Hawaii. I want to encompass the entire earth, a sprinkle of water on face reminding me of thousands of waterfalls and hidden brooks, or the warmth of the suns rays through my eyelids releasing dreams of a Thai sunrise or the first light for six months in the North Pole.
As I forever whisper for this, I also understand it is never to be. I can just dream of these places, their people and cultures, traditions and beliefs. They will stay eternal in my dreams as lands untouched my human eyes, perfect and beautiful, Gods fingerprints on every leaf and bark, every lick of water and grain of sand. I guess, as nothing really exists outside my experience, these places only exist inside my mind as mirages and optical illusions, just memories on my skin, like a National Geographic best-of played on repeat.