Let’s Be Each Other’s Everything

I want to read Tolstoy with you 2am in the morning on a sleepless night. We could roam in between worlds of fiction, maybe begin with Anna Karenina and transition into War & Peace. We could dissect both page by page and analyze their words under the moonlight.

I want to debate politics with you over breakfast and not the type we see sensationalized in the mainstream. I want to divulge into theory and create verbal Venn diagrams of each pro and con. It would be a tango of realism, liberalism and their neo subparts.

I want to discuss philosophy with you throughout our day. On the train to work, I want to know your thoughts on Seneca’s Letters and Aurelius’ Mediations. In between the routine of work, breaks and meetings, I want to know your opinions and interpretations. I want to be challenged by your new insights so I can reconsider my own. I want to debate our findings after work during a dinner we both cooked together.

I want to go hiking with you on weekends, forget about all of those responsibilities as we drive out of town. The chores and obligations will be another day’s concern as we have greater mountains to climb. If we have kids, let’s take them too. We could be those parents carrying babies in slings on a six hour hike. If it’s just the two of us, then let’s run. We could be amateur trail runners, weaving through the woods.

I want conversations that begin with hello and not incompetent colloquial expressions. I want you to be my partner, and not a savior on some white horse. I want an intellectual equal and a trail companion. I want a union that could be the one exception to all of those things we dread each day. I want us to be a source of anticipation and relief. I want us to be each other’s favourite company, the afterthought after a long day of work that brings a smile to our faces as we realize what awaits when we reunite at home.

Someone once told me I had high expectations but how erroneous of a conclusion to draw. What I want and what I expect are of the contrary. I want many things but that is not synonymous to what I expect. What I expect isn’t that all of these desires will manifest. My only expectation is that this ambiguous other will always try as I will too. All anyone can ever do is to try.

But if one must insist to label all of this as high expectations, I would rather frame it as romanticized absurdities. It has a better ring to it, a more fitting eloquence for a writer and all of her fleeting imagination.