In this light filled room, I’ve traversed through many worlds. I’ve seen monsters in the forest, their fingers long and skinny, nails black and chipped. I’ve seen passers-by, dancing on the street. I’ve heard neighbours, busily having sex, the plastic bed-frame against wooden floors giving them away. I’ve imagined you, your smile. Through the window, I’ve looked down and seen lovers, holding hands, fighting, smiling at one-another. I wish them well, and think of you.
I’ve imagined and replayed our conversations. When it becomes too hard, I return to thinking about meaning, about politics, about philosophy. I then find myself spiralling down into an existential loop, which inevitably leads to some kind of happy-nihilism. Nihilism needn’t be dark, you see, it can be joyful. And from it, we can construct a fictitious meaning – a truth. A useless task, I know, and paradoxical too. But I find solace in spaces of no meaning, and even more so, in spaces of created belief.
I return to thinking of you, it is always you. In and of itself, the concept of you is just a concept: it doesn’t really exist. You are everything that could be, everything that was, but you are not here. You are not here, experiencing this moment – you’re a token of the past and the future. You distract me, but eventually I pull myself away, I close my open heart and turn my back. It feels like I’m an infant, being whipped from the arms of its parent; I want to scream, but I can’t. Instead, the feeling of dread sits stagnant at the back of my throat. I remind myself that you are just an idea, abstract, make-believe. You do not exist.
I return to this light filled room. I look outside, and see the sun, or what I think is the sun, smiling down at me. It’s too sunny, I think, and then I immediately regret it. I remind myself that I am alive, and I am alive because of the sun. We are friends.
I return to my breath, I fill my lungs, greedily, with fresh air. I shut my eyes. I see red, my eyelids hot and warm. My eyes are covered by my hands now, and I smell the familiarity of my own flesh. I am about to start imagining you, again. I am about to pine after you, I long for your smell. But I am interrupted by a loud beep, which cuts my thoughts short.
I look out the window, and see you. Standing by your little red car. You are here, you exist.