To My Wife 25

I am sitting in a coffeehouse at night.  I can see flashing lights around me, but there seems to be little, genuine guidance.  It is early in the evening, and I can see passing cars carrying out the early evening plots.  And I am provided with another opportunity to think of you.  Perhaps it is selfish of me:  to compartmentalise your temporal existence within the confines of an inflated imagination that frequently only flexes when the pragmatic concerns of this Universe are temporarily abated.  Yet I also know that you exist within everything I do.  And I wonder whether you can see me within everything that you do.  That may be presumptuous of me, yet this entire dialogue may be considered presumptuous.  Perhaps it is simply precipitous.  How can we facilitate serendipity.  How much do I lend myself to influences, and how much do I assert the illusion of my free will and ego.  As I write this, I am challenged by the distractions around me;  the competing conversations, the music, the baristas.  I wonder how much the people around me may be contrary to our union.  I presume many would communicate severe indifference, yet this indifference is a vote to the contrary as well.  Yet it is this very people, this very scene that connects us-  the semi-progressive, intellectual, secular international community, as it respectively exists within our respective vicinities.  I struggle for the solution, to gain support from people who are perceived as different from me to marry a woman who is also perceived as different from the people, as well.  My experience shows me there are ways to broaden the perspective and align with institutions that bring people like us together.  And as I write this, a friend from the baristas offers me a pen to solve my challenges in actually writing this.  Answers can arrive in the most immediate of manners.  So I let the stream of consciousness continue.  And, again, I think of you;  where you are at this moment;  what you are doing and with whom you are doing it.  You may also be at a coffeehouse, the Sun still offering remnants of its light during your Summer.  You may be with friends at a restaurant or reading a book.  I try to think of how I can connect with that and preserve as much as I can.  Maybe you are already closer to me, in a nearby land.  In some ways that is easier, yet it is increasingly difficult for me to see.  I think about typing the letters and posting it to a blog.  I run the risk of people thinking I am crazy, but people already do that anyways.  I think that you may be able to find it and learn additionally about me.  Or perhaps someone who knows you sees it and thinks of you.  There is little to lose and much to gain, though the probability seems desperately low.  Perhaps you are studying for a class and you take a break to find me.  I think about previous letters and the scenario that is already written.  Yet I have little patience for that.  My plans to attend the World Cup this year at your home are growing dim and I struggle to think of another way of seeing and building your homeland.  The Buddha tells a story of a man who proclaims love for the most beautiful woman in the land without even knowing who she is or previously meeting her.  He calls this talk of his witless, like a man building a staircase to a house that abstains from existing.  Yet it seems that I have an imagination that challenges the scrutiny of the Buddha.  Sometimes it seems that is much of who I am – the challenger.  Always struggling for a cause, and perhaps becoming enveloped in a self-righteous peak that isolates me from imperfection.  Yet, I readily acknowledge my imperfections, and I lament how these imperfections challenge my union with you.  And it would be difficult to further this stream of conscious without referencing my back.  Stream of consciousness complete.  I return to pensiveness.  I wonder what we may be able to do in an actuality that combines my vision, your vision, and the Universe.  I have difficulty seeing ourselves pursue the suburban grind, looking for private schools for our children, God Willing.  I see our school, Asona Academy, being built or at the very least home-schooling our children.  Then we must decide where we live.  Again, avoiding the urban grind, perhaps we can find ourselves within our uNi Village or somewhere near this dream.