Well, picture this. The year is like, two thousand fifty or three thousand fifty or whatever, and the world is still the same old bullshit that it is. There are still cars that go on the road, and like, your bedroom, the one at the far corner of the house, is still a mess. It still has that strange smell and we’d still go there three to four times a week and have sex on the floor or on your bed or whatever, and afterwards I’d cover my eyes from the sunlight coming into your window and complain about the heat and you’d sort of laugh and you’d sort of not laugh, and you’d tell me to shut up and stop complaining and I’d slap your arm, and then you’d like, run to the bathroom to clean up and I’d be left behind to stare at your wall: the hanging masks, that framed picture of that old guy with a camera, the scribble you made when you were young. Whenever this happens I will only ever think about one of these four things: that I’m bored of you, that I’m crazy about you, that you need to clean your room, that the sun is too bright.
You still picturing this? You still picturing me? In the future, this future of ours (yes, that’s right: not your future, not mine – OURS – stop thinking that it’s all just about you and YOUR problems. It’s selfish to just think about yourself, did you fucking know that? Seriously, I don’t get you sometimes), I’ll be driving home from work every day at about six in the evening, and it’ll be a twenty minute drive, and you’re only finding out about this now, but I like to listen to really depressing music while I drive. I’ll listen to girls crying about love, I’ll listen to boys crying about love, I’ll listen to lyrics like, “I hurt myself today,” and, “I will follow you into the dark,” and, “he raped me in the chalet lines”. In the future, I’ll be bald like Natalie Portman. Actually, no I won’t: my hair will be a little curlier, my lashes a bit longer, my thighs so much thinner. Sometimes I just hate you. I really, really hate you. I often fantasise about strangling you against the bathroom sink, both of us nude, your hands just flailing wildly, bottles and toothbrushes falling onto the floor, my smile, your smile, your blood under my fingernails, your funeral, everyone’s tears, my tears, rain – no, maybe sunshine; me, hugging my pillow, crying, missing you and calling my best friends to tell them that I feel empty inside.
You know I don’t think things will be that different in the future. There’ll still be jealousy, there’ll still be love, there’ll still be some kind of Valentine’s Day. There’ll still be people who give value to the world, there’ll still be people who don’t. I don’t think we give much value to the world. I mean, like, your job, my job, what are they worth in the grand scheme of things? You once asked me if what I was doing was even that important, and you don’t know this, but it really got me thinking, and thinking, and thinking. This sounds corny, and I hate to admit this, but I feel lonely most of the time. Even when I’m with people, and even when I’m with you. I know I should be grateful for everything that I have. I know I should. You know, there will be a day in the future when I’ll find you just sitting there, or maybe lying there, and you’ll have this gentle smile, this gentle, gentle smile, and I’ll kneel next to you and touch your face and you’ll look up at me. For a very, very brief second, you’ll look concerned, but then you’ll smile again, and then I’ll smile, and I’ll tell you that you can keep me forever.
Imagine like, the year six thousand. Will we be ghosts? Will we be angels, or souls, or animals? Will I be able to meet you again, and again, and again? What kind of girl will I be to you if you were rich? What kind of girl will I be to you if I was in a wheelchair? Will I still think about cheating on you, will I lie to you as often as I do now? I wonder if the girls in movies ever wished they were real. I wonder if life didn’t have to continue once we told each other that we loved each other – that we could just die satisfied in knowing that someone loves us. Because sometimes life just feels like a movie with way too many sequels. It could’ve ended happily so many times already, you know? There’s just too much time for too many more mistakes.
Imagine, like, the year two thousand and seventy. We’ll both be really old, and you’ll have dementia or something and I’ll always pee myself whenever a nurse touches my arm. At night, at the retirement village, I’ll creep into your room and just look at you in disgust and in love and in awe and in fear and in sadness, and I’ll kiss your forehead, and I’ll cry. I’ll always cry, no matter what. I’ll hold your hand. I’ll whisper about the kids you no longer remember, and I’ll whisper good night and ask you why you didn’t just let me kill you when we were young, and I’ll imagine my life spent differently, with another man, with two men, with many men, and I’ll whisper that I love you, and then I’ll slowly walk back to my room with my hands touching my chest.