Things I Wish I Could Say to You

Never have I ever once believed that I could live in regret. Ever. And I don’t, I swear. But it’s funny how things sneak up on you, like a jack-in-the-box. It’s been strange, the past few weeks, having my thoughts laid bare for ears that eagerly await the regurgitation of the firing of my synapses, never qualitatively judging, but intently following tangent after tangent, never stopping the fluidity of my stream of consciousness. There I go again.

See what I mean?

Let’s start again.

I was often so scared of letting people into my mind. Because, let’s be honest, I’m a little south of fucked-up. But who isn’t these days? Am I right? Never mind.

I’m sitting here, the sun warming my skin through the ancient glass panes of this sublimely salacious building, encapsulated by the weight of this place, and I’m wondering how you’re doing. These thoughts as discordant as the strings on that guitar that never stays tuned in the heat. This isn’t normal for me, to sit here, intent on selfishly exploring my own jagged thoughts as the breeze plays with my hair from the ajar window, and have my thoughts lead back to anything. Let alone you.

But here we are.

Strange isn’t it? The way the world has a way of working things out. Like, the way water pressure unkinks a hose. What a shitty simile. Bear with me, here. Within the chaos of our universe, there is a linear correlation. A teleological narrative to our lives - a beginning, a middle and an end. But as often as the universe can simplify our lives, it can also complicate. That’s one of Newton’s laws, isn’t it? For every action, there’s an equal reaction? I digress. What am I trying to say? That our timing is off? Sure, let’s go with that.

The breeze today. That four p.m. breeze that signifies the end of the day, the cooler nights, the end of summer and of careless summer inhibitions and the beginning of autumn anxieties. Christ, aren’t I the eternal optimist. Goosebumps rise on my bare arms, the sunlight picks up the threads of a spider’s home. The sun is smothered by the odd passing cloud. Time passes.

Below me is the calls of anxious students finding their way around, start a new chapter in their lives as they flesh out the uncertainties in this liminal space between adolescence and adulthood, solidifying those binaries - a cesspool for strange possibilities. The colliding of new people in new places, attempting to connect and share and selfishly collect. See, I truly believe that the universe doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle. I’m such an idealist, right? Not necessarily. Perhaps. But maybe, that’s why the universe handed me you.

Pardon me. Let me clarify.

Actually, I don’t even know how to go about it. Such a strange time in my life. Contemplating the impending existential crisis that kept me up every night, that made me break out in a cold sweat, the idea of dying so young that I would never experience anything that was ritual for the general population. Caught in between life-changing decisions that no barely legal adult should be making for themselves while attempting to save for a future that isn’t guaranteed - please stop me if this becomes too much.

I never told you that I was treading that typical millennial existential dread when we started this. This correspondence. I couldn’t decide if it was my faulty lungs or your stupid ideas about movies that made me stop breathing. But I stayed up all night, not once thinking of the timeliness of my illness, or the heaviness in my throat or the burning of my eyes because all I was focused on were those three little dots when you typed. Stupid, right? I know. It wasn’t that I liked you like that or anything. And I had spent many a night talking to my friends until dawn broke. But this was different. I don’t know why, but it was. And I know that’s not a solid answer, but it’ll have to do, okay?

I’m going to nerd out a little. Indulge me. I think it was your narrative voice. The way you talked to me. So naïve and sweet. Charming and innocent, but there was an undertone of worldliness, of experience. The eagerness to learn and the willingness to be taught. It was there. And it was intriguing. I liked that I could tell you things, I could correct you without you acting defeated, intellectually castrated. But it worked both ways. A symbiotic relationship based stupid shit. You had the patience to teach me new things, talking to me with conviction, passion. And you let me into your world, and you, mine. We sculpted each other into strange abstract conglomerations of ourselves - a post-modern biblical image. Too far? I don’t think so.

I think your face is stupid. Actually, though. Your dimples make your face so impishly playful. Directly incongruent to the way your downcast eyes mean that your conflicted about what I’m sure is some convoluted adult problem. I remember you looked at me like that while we were on the train. You would look anywhere but me until I left. It was a few days later I found out why. I said it was fine.

I’m not mad. I promise.

That’s the thing that really frustrates me. I should be livid that I'm here. That left me in limbo. That had me think so hard, come in contact with the part of me that’s so shut out from the rest of the world, think hard about my future that for so long, I thought wouldn’t exist, only to make me realize that it doesn’t matter. Who the fuck do you think you are?

That got heated. I apologize. What you didn’t know was even though I was cool, I cried. That was the teleological end of that. Finished as quickly as it started. And here we are. The smallest tinge of what I think might be regret. But I’m not mad.

I was selfish. I still am. I choose to be. Living for myself means not causing anyone pain because they’re an arm’s length away from the beating ventricles of my chest. It’s altruistic selfishness. And that selfishness made me realize that you’d be an invasive thought every once in a while instead of an active participant in my day to day life. Guess what? I might have been wrong. How you’ve integrated yourself into my life, so seamlessly! My friends like you and they hate everyone. The way you hate everyone, and I hate everyone and everyone we know hates everyone else. Call it the millennial condition. What was I saying again? Regret? Right.

I’m distant. It’s just easier that way. Because nine hours with your thoughts throughout the night makes you realize that it’s better that way. Because, I’m well aware, if you were to give me that option today, in the five o'clock setting sun, here in this place, I would say okay. Let’s try. Being aware of this makes me exposed. And I’m scared. Like when I had given you my words. But I don’t regret doing that. I never will. And I don’t regret the decisions I made that day, or at least I don’t think I do. What the fuck am I getting at? That I’m jealous of your certainty? Your ability to feel? How serious you look when you’re trapped in your mind? How quickly you’ve come to know me?

Excuse my tangent.

What I mean to say is that time was never on my side. Oh, how self-deprecating! Rather, my own timing is always just a few seconds off. Perhaps it’s the universe telling me that it isn’t the time for anything more than us now, or maybe it’s my paralyzing fear of letting someone close, but I’m not mad. I promise. I speak the way I will always speak to you - tangent after tangent of endless synaptic waste and you will listen the way you always do - with open ears and an open mind. And we work, in this static space of disillusionment and familiarity. And so it goes. So I sit here, with Toronto breathing on me, the sun dissipating against the backdrop of the skyline, letting my mind occasionally sweep your way. Because I’m selfish, in the best way possible.