In the Future Tense

If you disappear tomorrow I would call in sick at work.  I wouldn’t eat, I couldn’t eat.  I’d have instant coffee and would pace around the house.  Maybe I’d paint the cracks in my walls, maybe I’d paint my nails a pretty colour.  If you disappear tomorrow, I would lay motionless on my bed for half the day, staring at the ceiling, until I would talk to myself out loud to snap out of it.  I wouldn’t go on social media at all, and I wouldn’t care to know what the current situation in the Ukraine is.   By the end of the day, I would have written at least a dozen of poems about you that I wouldn’t write today because today I’m happy, and I never write poems when I’m happy.

If you disappear tomorrow, I would listen to Tori Amos on repeat, followed by Françoise Hardy.  I would sing out loud.   I would cry and spend the day avoiding my housemates to not have to explain why I’m red eyed and dishevelled.  I would take the longest and hottest shower and just stand there, staring through the water with eyes vacant.  Knowing myself I’d break down in tears uncontrollably, and then  I’d think how it reminds me of a scene in Girl Interrupted, or a similar movie that I have seen in the past.

I would fall asleep, eventually.

On Saturday I would wake up early because of the heavy feeling in my chest.  I’d have another coffee, and perhaps toast.  I’d dress myself and go for a walk on Brick Lane.  I’d avoid looking at couples and avoid looking at places where we’ve been together.  I’d think of going to walk by the Thames, but then would decide against it, because it would remind me of that one day with you when everything was a possibility.   I would head to a coffee shop and write.  I’d write about hope, I’d rationalise every bit of emotion overtaking my body, and I’d write about how one day this won’t matter.   Then I’d get that heavy feeling in my chest again and would message every person in the city that I would want to see and make plans with for the rest of the week. That night, I would put make up on and go drink whiskey with a friend, in a random pub.  I’d talk about you a lot, repetitively.

Sunday I would wake up with a hangover, which would distract me from the heaviness in my chest.  I’d step outside my house and buy flowers from the flower market.  Then I’d go to the drugstore and buy pink and purple hair dye and I’d ombré my hair pink again, while listening to my good old spotify list ‘we meet again my heartache.’  I’d smirk at the thought that all love songs and heartbreak songs are so generic, I’d laugh at no matter how concentrated the pain or the passion, and how unique our experiences feel, human feelings are generic.  My flatmates would bake me chocolate chip cookies, because by then I would have told them, and that’s something they would do.

If you disappear tomorrow, I would buy a one way ticket to Melbourne with my savings, for five months from now.  That would chase the terrible sense of dread for at least a few minutes.  I would e-mail all my friends abroad and have detailed skype sessions with them.  I’d avoid my mom, she’d ask too many questions that I wouldn’t want to answer.   If you disappear tomorrow, I would go see as many plays as I could and eat as much cake as my appetite would permit.  I would make plans for the summer and you wouldn’t be in them.  I would spend weekends in other towns than yours and would go to the planetarium with a new person.  I would blog every day, because last time I was heartbroken, I blogged every day, and I’m an individual of pattern.

If you disappear tomorrow, I would finish translating some ted talks, and then I would build a portfolio and apply for freelancing positions.  I would make a plan to send ten applications a day until something would come along.  And something is bound to come along if you try, right?

If you disappear tomorrow I would reactivate my ok cupid profile and go on pointless dates that would fill some of my lonely evenings with some form of entertainment.  I would talk with them about everything but you.  If you disappear tomorrow, I would make a point to run every day by the canal.  I would go to bed and fall asleep effortlessly, completely physically exhausted.

Eventually summer would come and I’d spend evenings after work picnicking in Hyde Park and on weekends, I’d take the train to Brighton.  My hair will be a bit blonder and my skin a bit more tan.  By the end of the summer, I would be in another country.  I would then think of what it would be like to be there with you, and quickly, the thought would disappear, because I would be too busy figuring the rest of my life out.

But I don’t think you’ll disappear tomorrow, and that thought makes me happy, as frail as that reality could potentially be.  The fear of abandoning myself in you, in us, the rational thought process of heavy cautiousness is never fully departing me.  But if you disappear tomorrow, I know that I would live on, no matter how broken and hopeless I would feel.  And writing this out puts me into perspective: allowing you in my dreams, and in my imagined plans is not what would break me.  And so, I, finally, consciously am going to let my mind do the thing that used to be so natural to it back when it was naturally vulnerable and had child-like naivety and hope about love:  daydream about us in the future tense.


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