It’s five in the morning and I can’t get to sleep. I’ve been listening to Lauryn Hill’s cover of Curtis Mayfield’s ‘The Makings of You’ on repeat. It’s brilliant. I’ve recently been having the same idle daydream. I’m on a train in India and you’re there too, but I can’t see your face. We’re in a cabin on that train. Are we going to Darjeeling? I’m not quite sure. All I know is that you’re there, reading (writing in your journal?), and you look up to me on the otherside of the cabin and grin, swaying slightly as the train races down the tracks. It is very brief; I don’t know what came before it or what comes after. But it’s very affecting. I’m sure this scene is a combination of my lucid dreaming and secret fantasies.
It strikes me as a little odd, however, that you’re there. I am used to daydreams of this sort but I am always just by myself. But in this daydream I am content — happy even. I have always been averse to settling; at least that’s what I’d like to think. The thought of settling scares me. The thought of sharing my dream with someone else and feeling contentment in that dream, scares me too. I think somewhere deep down, I wish I didn’t have that anxiety of wasting time with someone. Maybe it’s an anxiety of baring myself so that I’m exposed and vulnerable; maybe it’s an anxiety that if I am with someone, I might miss meeting you.
Sometimes I want that feverish love — a burning fire that will rip through me so that it feels like I can’t breathe. The kind of love that compels poets to drink themselves into oblivion before writing so furiously it’s like their pencils are bleeding. But I also want a thoughtful, quiet love, like the kind in my daydream. I am envious of those who’ve already experienced this or found it or a combination of both. I turn 25 this year — I know, a freckle in the grand, scheme of things — and for the first time since I knew what to do with my clumsy emotions, I think I want to find you.