If I could wind down the clocks just a bit right before this fall semester starts so that I could have a chance to speak with you, this might be what I would say.
I suppose things don't seem all too different since the spring. I still write out my musings in the company of strangers who drag their American Spirits and their Marlboros, bitching about professors and bosses. I still improvise fragments of a blues tune in the shower when the roommates are out. I have a Pendelton whiskey in the freezer and a gradually emptying box of Lucky Strikes on my table. I check my mailbox even when I haven't ordered any cartel from Amazon to stick my fix. I measure out my indifference with myself and my life in Facebook sessions and regular size scalding cups of sweetened Americano.
These all are symptoms of my summer waste. The buzzing, the static. I spent more time in love with all the distractions and decorations my Visa could afford my boredom. It was a serious affair but things haven't worked out. You have been weighed and measured, Turvy, and I love you very much. But I have to kill you now.
It's the way. You know that by now. You are my time, and my time is a thread in Time when heard echoing down the hallway. My passage in this life lies between two doors to the dark, and I have sneaked a peek into both. I worry that I'm not there (where? There...), but I really am. I have been before. And I will be moments from now, too. I will be remembered. I will stain Time with myself, and you are going to help me. And for the very first time, I realize that I'll be remembered not because I fear being forgotten, but because I have the choice to be remembered - the choice to be alive. If only I can get my ass off this couch.
So you will be electrocuted. All I do is say the magic word, like Billy Batson must when calling for Captain Marvel, and there will be shock and lightning to turn me into something new. But the lightning must strike you. The moment of epiphany belongs to me but you must suffer for it. Even die for it. You may be my own, and my creation, but all stars have their moments before they burn out.
But in some places in this world where you've been, they do say that Shiva is your father. Others say you are the only son of our Father Abraham. You will be brought back to life during Death's immaculate dance. You will be saved by the hand of God at the very last second. I can only speculate that in some way or another, I will wake up tomorrow morning to find you in the room. I imagine that your face will be sad and that you will be smiling. And we will begin again, inseparable, until the very, very end.
I suspect so. I suspect so.