Is your mind full of what ifs, fluttering about with all the frailty reticent in new ideas? Do you wonder aloud, let your words float up the ceiling as you think about all the things I might do, may do, could do, have done? Does your mind wander, then, through places new and old, the familiar and the fantasy?
Or does your mind blank, trying to slip into some sort of trance, a way to while away the time between now and then, trying to cross the distance with the minimum of effort, as if, should you be able to empty your mind, you’d also empty it of the knowledge of time, and the ability to perceive its passing. Do you, then, lose yourself in the anticipation, let it override your body and overwhelm your mind?
I’d like to think it’s a little of both, an undulating rhythm between one and the next. I’d like to think you’re entirely obsessed, with nothing else to do but wait and play, keep yourself occupied while you wait for me to occupy myself with you. I’d like to think that you have nothing better to do, because I supersede all else. But then I always did have a vastly inflated sense of my own worth.
Instead, I imagine you let it tick away in the back of your mind, all of the above, the fantasising, the anticipating, and leave it there, a way of remembering, reminding yourself, while you keep yourself busy with all the things you have to do, should do. I imagine it’s nothing like my imagination, at all. Which makes it awfully fortunate that I’m so very good at conjuring my fantasies once I do arrive.
But then that’s why you anticipate it in the first place.
theDry Valleys in the Transantarctic Mountains are just like “fuck it, we don’t have to put anything here, it’s not part of the main map we’ll finish it later”.
