Having the entire back seat to yourself, legs stretched out and head out the window. Having that light and slightly warm breeze mess your hair about. Good music playing in the background. Wearing shorts and a tee. The feeling of summer.
This piece has been a long time coming. I’ve tried to write it so many times. So many different ways. I’ve tried the “I’m in love with my best friend but not in a Nicholas Sparks kinda way” approach. Or another approach, which I realised after reading sounded like I was actually on the verge of lesbianism.
But being in love with your best friends is so much more than being in love romantically. There is no other person who’s happiness is equal to mine. I mean, if the boy I romantically like is sourcing happiness from someone other than me, there is no way that I’m happy about that.
But platonic love, it’s just so much more. When they’re happy or in love, or when they’re sad or angry, you don’t just empathise. You feel it too. When my best friend got an internship for Paris, I wasn’t just happy for her. I felt an excitement that rivalled excitement I had felt for my own self. I was as thrilled as she was. And I was staying behind.
I haven’t said everything I’ve wanted to say and I don’t think I ever will. It’s just something that you feel in those moments and it just makes you happy to be alive and to be alive with other people. I guess it’s one of those things that is hard to put into words. Love defies definition. It’s one of those things you know when you’ve felt it. Loving someone so much, but not romantically. Just really really enjoying them as a person. My closest friends are the best things about my life. And not just to share time and existence with them but to share actual feelings, well, it’s something that’s pretty swell.
I miss physical touch, the brain says. No segue. No leading thought. It’s like it’s been wanting to say it and just couldn’t hold it in anymore. And not physical touch in the sense of someone holding my hand or hugging me, but the comfortable incidentals. The legs bumping together. Two arms leaning on each other. Their hand brushing against your waist. The kind of contact that comes when you’re close enough and comfortable enough with someone, that you are near enough to accidentally touch.
And it’s something that can be felt, in both actuality and absence. When they’re standing close enough that you can feel it. And you will them to make contact, even if it’s in the slightest form. It’s almost a test. Will they brush past me “accidentally on purpose”. Maybe they are so unaware of themselves around me that they just didn’t realise how close we’d gotten. Or will they maintain the polite and respectable distance. With space so dense you can feel it.
The amount of times I’ve willed someone to make contact. To put his hand on my knee in familiarity, or on the small of my back as a gesture of togetherness. I sometimes think about what might have happened if any of them ever did. And it’s times like this I wonder, if we ever reach a point where our skin doesn’t burn at the touch of someone else. If one day it’s so natural and often that you don’t even feel it anymore.
The internet does beautiful things sometimes, like bringing to you images that someone has found the negatives of in an old vintage box in a thrift store in california, and has had them developed, and they’ve turned out to be beautiful film shots taken sometime in 1940-1950, and they just take your breath away.
I love a good film. And I use the word film deliberately.
A film thats got gravitas. That has been cultivated and deliberated over and has beautiful cinematography and a soundtrack that gives you goosebumps. A quick paced dialogue. A unique and non-cliched script. Pretty much the antithesis of every Katherine Heigl movie ever.
And I haven’t been excited for the release of a picture for a while. The last movies I was excited for where the Grand Budapest Hotel, Interstellar and Birdman.
But these two bad boys are finally making their way from the Sundance Film Festival to Australian screens, and I’m fair excited to see them. And even a little bit excited to be excited.
I don’t think you become a grown-up.
I think it’s something you feel. And as time goes on and the years go by, it’s something you begin to feel more often than not.
And sometimes you feel grown-up not because it’s your birthday and you know you’re another year older, but on a Thursday afternoon as you leave for work.
And maybe it’s because you’re finally learning how to dress appropriately for the weather, or because you’ve spent the past hour running errands. Hell, maybe it’s because of the sound your boots make.
Or maybe it’s because you really feel happy and together, and it’s something you’ve been feeling more and more.
I don’t have time to worry about boys.
I’m too busy admiring the sun and the stars.