I get a lot of scary thoughts in my head but today, there’s a predominant one:
What if I never met you?
What if I never started that blog? What if I never hung out with that uhm, guy? What if I never checked my stats? What if I said no to the gig? What if I left right after the gig? What if I never signed up on YM? What if I never got addicted to the internet? What if I didn’t break up with all those idiots? What if I had moved to another country?
I wouldn’t have met you.
And that thought is so scary it’s paralyzing. More paralyzing than the twelve cuts of foie gras I swallowed today as you sent me fiery warnings with your eyes.
Ours is a long story, a very long one, one so long I don’t know how to begin telling it anymore.
I tried, a few weeks ago, at a reunion with friends who used to know everything that was going on in my life. How do you cram over two years of your life into a five-minute story? I don’t think I did us justice.
Conversations at 6 in the morning. Eight-hour hugs. Bottles of beer. Chapped lips. Magnetic poetry. Plane rides, not enough plane rides. Strange cities. Strange beds. Trains. Boats. The couch that has seen everything. Hotel rooms. Beaches. Swimming pools. Long drives. Short drives. So many songs. So many pictures. Surprises that made us laugh. Surprises that made us cry. Boxing, running. Jumping off a cliff. Conquered mountains. Conquered fears. Throwing trash out. Cold showers. Hot showers. Movie tickets piling up. Sleeping in. Lazy Sundays. Little drawings, little notes. Everything entwined.
I can go on and on.
There was a time when I thought I could document everything, when I could write our story and it would read like a novel.
Guess what? I never got past chapter one.
I’ve been too busy living life with you to stop and write about it. And even now that I’m writing this, I am eager to end it because I can’t wait to go back to you. But I don’t know how to end it. And I shouldn’t be surprised. Because there isn’t one.
We have no ending.