I imagine, I imagine, I imagine
I've spent all day thinking about what I'm going to tell you. I want to share so, so many things with you, you can't even imagine. We'll go little by little: I don't want you thinking I'm crazy. It's just that it has been a long time, and now that I have this I can't let it go.
You see, it's nothing new for me to spend a whole day turning something over in my head, having imaginary conversations and feeding my inner monologue. I once saw on TikTok — a trustworthy source, I like to pronounce it with a slight accent on the first syllable, "Tík-tok" — that there are people who live without a constant inner dialogue. Wild.
Me, on the other hand, I'm always, always, always talking to someone. Sometimes I pick back up old arguments, other times I win them them even before they start. I talk to friends, strangers, no one in particular, and to myself. I've hosted cooking shows, Vogue's 73 Questions, and even a what's-in-my-bag video. But that's not even the best part: I also imagine. I imagine I'm in places I know or don't know, with people I haven't seen in years, or people I've made up for the occasion.
I imagine how I'd move, what I'd say, in which moment would I raise an arm or laugh out loud. Sometimes I backtrack if my own performance hasn't convinced me, or if my traitorous mind jumps ahead to things I'd planned for later. It's funny, and I hope you won't diagnose me with some strange disorder, but sometimes I don't even play myself. I imagine a face, eyes, a nose, a smile, and a personality that isn't mine. I change names, height, and of course, language! How wonderful. I am aware this behavior has a name, I just can't think of it right now. We'll leave that for another time, though I'm sure you already know how's it called.
I'll confess something to you, but promise me it will stay between us: lately, I can't stop imagining you. Or at least the blurry image of you that's left in my head after years of erosion. When I close my eyes, I see a fuzzy sketch of your face, like someone had splashed water on a lens. I remember the color of your eyes, the shape of your hair, your sharp nose. God forgive me for admitting this, but what I remember most is your smile. And what smiling did to the rest of your face. And even worse, what your smile caused to myself.
I don't remember your voice when you spoke, neither its tone or rhythm; I don't even remember if you had a verbal tic. I remember hearing you sing, and, of course, the shiver that ran through my whole body the first time I heard you. You have a beautiful, velvety voice, almost like a soft carress. Although I don't have to imagine that's news to you: we both know that for certain.
There you go, another confession: I would love to hear you say my name again. You had a special way of calling me, do you remember?