Vagueness. That's all I ever really get, when I allow myself to imagine the unimaginable. Just the slightest sense of surroundings. The slightest sense of the surreal scene wherein everything comes to a head.
It might start with a fight, of sorts. An argument that's not quite taking place. A disagreement still mired in the throes of its own birth. A misunderstanding mangled and mutilated by misinterpretation. Something like that, anyway.
I've had enough. I stand, abruptly and purposefully. On my feet. On a chair. On a table. On a rooftop. On a mountaintop. I find the most visible, the most public place I can find. I can feel myself about to explode from the pressures that I've held back for so long. I will explode, finally and mercifully, and I'm determined that the noise of that explosion will not fall on deaf ears.
I scream the words that I've longed to scream for so long that I cannot remember a time when I didn't long to scream them. With every ounce of strength, I emphasize the words as they rip and tear their way out of me. I exist to say the words, and the words exist to be said.
Funny thing is - the words don't even matter. All that matters is the meaning behind the words. I pour everything I am, everything I ever will be, into the meaning behind the words, and I hope that it's enough. For understanding. For acceptance. For so much more. For everything.
Alternatively, it might be expected. Anticipated, even. A quiet moment, perhaps, I imagine, in the midst of a crowd that doesn't matter and that will never matter. A private conversation that crosses some invisible line between friendliness and something else. Something more.
My lips so close to her. My lips brushing her ear, caressing her ear as I say the words that I've longed to say for so long that I cannot remember a time when I didn't long to say them.
By this time, she expects the words from me, and she wants to hear the words from me. She needs to hear the words. From me, of all people. It is as surreal for her as it is for me, and that's saying a lot.
And I say the words in my softest voice, and my lips carve the words into her ear as I say them. And all is good. All is as it should be. I say the words, and my life grinds to a halt as I wait for a response, yet a large part of me doesn't even care what the response might be. She will know, without a doubt, she will know. And I will finally be free of all need for deception and deduction and denial.
I suspect that the truth will lie somewhere between these two extremes. I suspect that the truth will seem mundane by comparison. I suspect that the truth will seem boring to everyone except the two of us. Not that I will care what anyone else thinks. They won't matter. I will matter, and she will matter, and that's it.
I like, sometimes, to imagine the unimaginable. It's really not that tough, for me to do so. After all, I live the unimaginable every day. Every single day.