Drive me to Oblivion
A prose for my future wife
My future wife. Perhaps mother to my children. Perhaps not.
I can’t help but wonder now that I’m no longer looking for you, if you haven’t done the same. I’ve been reading. Voraciously. Trying to quell my hunger. I find the more I digest, the more I want to consume. Like a well stoked furnace, the heat growing exponentially with each new branch added to the blaze. At a certain point, the fire burns so hot that no amount of fuel is enough to keep it running, and the only means of maintaining is by adding more. More. One after the other.
I read that once you stop searching out your one, that she will find you. But how can I be your one if you are looking for me? You need to look to find. Or maybe you’re feeling. Perhaps you can feel me, like I can feel you. Out there, somewhere, like the stars so boldly claimed by the night sky. Their appearance placed long before I was born and will likely remain long after I’m gone. Have you always been there, just as the stars seem to have been? I can’t tell. I cannot feel your age, you are timeless.
Perhaps it is me for whom you’ve been waiting. Ten years, twenty? It’s possible that you’ve spent years equal to nearly my entire lifetime waiting, searching, for me. Or maybe you don’t exist yet. Maybe you never will. But how then, to be sure, is it possible that I can feel you if you’re not there?
You must be.
I imagine you, imperfect. The very utterance of the word soothes me.
Imperfect, like me.
Maybe you have red hair like the evening sky, or black like the armour of the fallen knight. Maybe your skin is light and textured, eggshell, opaque like my living room wall, speckled with portraits and lists, like fine art. Perhaps it’s akin to that of my desk, worn with the character of a thousand stories, burnt like reflective light from a distant lamppost, bearing only the silhouette of freshly fallen snow.
How will we be?
Will you run your hands through my thinning hair and laugh as I lustfully inhale the waning scent of your aroma? Will we take the train at dusk to an unknown venue, for a show that neither of us have heard of, just so we can say we were together when the final second of what is today finally becomes tomorrow?
Where will we be when that day arrives? Will we wake up like any other day?
Without a clue of each other’s existence.
Only a feeling.
I wonder if I wait. Wait until that final second arrives, the one that blurs the line between yesterday and today when, for a moment, it becomes neither. I wonder, if I wait until that brief moment and just as the final second is about to pass, attempt to peer between the cracks of infinite. Will I find you staring back at me on the other side of the abyss? Will we desperately reach, even further and harder than when a man reaches for the light on his deathbed, with every ounce of our breath, and pull each other through into a space where time is not present?
Is this the only means to find what you desire? Existing only in the space of the unimaginable. A time that happens so often, yet so few seem to find. Has it ever been found?
My future wife. I will not search for you. But I will wait. I will sit here on the shores of oblivion, watching the waves crash under the light of a billion stars, each pointing in a direction different from my own. I will set out a tent made from my musings and I will build a fire, stoked and kept burning by my ambitions.
I will make this place my home. A place between the lines of today, tomorrow, and yesterday. A place where the ones meet their others. A place that only exists in us and, when we are found, a place where we’ll camp under the blanket of eternity, together.