You are the only person I’d like to say goodbye to when I die, because only then will this thing I call my life make sense. And if I should hear that you died, my life as I know it, the me who is speaking with you now, will cease to exist.
Or are ‘being’ and ‘having’ thoroughly inaccurate verbs in the twisted skein of desire, where having someone’s body to touch and being that someone we’re longing to touch are one in the same, just opposite banks on a river that passes from us to them, back to us and over to them again in this perpetual circuit where the chambers of the heart, like the trapdoors of desire, and the wormholes of time, and the false-bottomed drawer we call identity share a beguiling logic according to which the shortest distance between real life and the life unlived, between who we are and what we want, is a twisted staircase designed with the impish cruelty of M.C. Escher.
…when you’re just ready to shut the door of the taxi and have already said goodbye to everyone else and there’s not a thing left to say in this life, then, just this once, turn to me, even in jest, or as an afterthought, which would have meant everything to me when we were together, and, as you did back then, look me in the face, hold my gaze, and call me by your name.
Aciman, André. “Call Me by Your Name.” Macmillan, 2007 (via huntercanning
If I could have him like this in my dreams every night of my life, I’d stake my entire life on dreams and be done with the rest.
“If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?” — Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club.