It was nine in the morning. On the other side of the telephone conversation it was midnight. We couldn’t agree: whether or not to get our own place and all that it entailed. It was getting really late for her and she still had work to do. There are times I wish the pulse of the city would seize from a heart attack. It is such a ridiculous notion that life be so hectic that we have no time to talk about life. We have no time to solve our differences; no time to explore the perspectives of the other; no time to love or to live. We just keep moving, like one suffering from Parkinson’s. We move until we are dead. Only then do we stop. And many of us hope - at best - that some meaning will be found at the end of it.
So it is in this incessant need for activity that we ended our phone conversation unresolved: me in my uncertainty and she in her despair. Not only do we live in different time zones, we stand in different places of our lives. She’s been a member of the working class for three years, and I a student barely finishing my education.
It hurt especially when she said we were in very different places in our lives. I felt so inept; so unable to fulfill her dreams simply because of the place I was at. While my contemporaries talk about seeing the world, landing the big job or just partying like there’s no tomorrow, my future seems so fixed and static. Am I tempted by such allusions of grandeur? Of course I am. But I would so gladly give it all up for a quiet life with her. Because she’s home to me.
You are home to me. I want so much to start a life with you. Decorating our own little place, having dinner with you every night and watching you wake every morning. I want so much to make you happy, and it hurts that my intent is so feeble in the harsh, stark light of reality.
I cannot buy you a home. I cannot graduate any sooner. I don’t know if I’ll get a job fast enough upon my return. It hurts that I have to make you wait for the life we both want so much. I know that you’d never blame me, but it hurts that it is my fault - that I am the one holding the both of us back, and there is nothing I can do about it.
I have nothing but the intangibility of love. And it is all I have to offer you.
I love you.