day 31
A conversation with a friend of mine recently, got me thinking about half moments. The people you nearly, but don’t quite kiss. Long nights with a friend sat up on holiday, when everyone else has gone to bed and you’ve somehow found another bottle of wine and are talking talking talking. There’s just this extra presence in the room, the air shifts and the anticipation of the moment unfurling, or potentially losing their nerve, going to bed early, or just staying up and letting it happen. Sharing a bed with someone – semi accidentally – and you’re so aware of every shift in the night, hoping it’ll lead somewhere, always feeling a little surprised if it does. Playing with the power of that moment. When nothing happens but something is so close you can feel your body responding already, hair standing on end, body thrumming. It’s heady. Addictive. Torturous.
Playing with the power of that moment. When nothing happens but something is so close you can feel your body responding already, hair standing on end, body thrumming.
I suppose it’s nights like these which make you want to fall in love, or be in love. Why else would we go through the pain of the indecision, the confusion, the not knowing. Who would be mad enough to inflict this level of stress on your heart and your mind, if not for the fact that it’s like a drug? I’m not actually talking about the drug of love here, it’s more the fantasy of love. It’s easy to find yourself slipping into patterns and settling for crumbs, when you deserve the whole cake as Florence Given would say. Allowing yourself to become invested in something which has no future, someone you met on your gap year say, a Peter pan type figure, somebody with a girlfriend or a boyfriend, or someone who is just emotionally unavailable but all by themselves.
There’s strangely a kind of comfort in doing this. It’s a pattern I often fall into. As a rom com die hard, I think the idea of torturous love leading to something life changing, the run and kiss at the end of the movie, the love letter, the confession, the “I’ll love you even though you eat smooth not crunchy peanut butter” speech is something I’m always kind of angling for… It’s a difficult habit to break. When really, the best love sounds kind of just easy.
Sometimes I do genuinely worry that real love won’t happen for me. Not in the same way that it seems to exist in love songs. Or movies. There’s this distance to any almost intimacy, maybe it’s the writer side of my brain which is always analysing, picking a part, both being in the moment and outside of it that means I can never quite manage to let down my guard enough in a real way, to someone who is seeking it, to allow something to come to fruition. And I am fulfilled in my life, really. That’s not just a knee jerk defensive statement. I have wonderful friends who excite me and inspire me, and it always seems like a failure as a feminist to admit that you’re lonely, that you want, well more.
Sometimes I do genuinely worry that real love won’t happen for me. Not in the same way that it seems to exist in love songs. Or movies.
You can fill novels with half moments, poems with looks, semi dates where you talk about what you want out of life, or the first crush you ever had, or why you find it hard to trust people…. but you can’t fill a life with half moments. Because the thing about them, is that they’re not actually enough to fill you up. It’s called a half moment for a reason. And when you return home, to your bed and the fantasy has dwindled and the person you’ve fixated your attention on goes back to their real life, drinking tea with their real people and their heart wide open like a door… you lie in bed and wonder, was it you? Was it them? It’s always hard to tell… but I’m sick to death of the half life. And I hope if you see yourself in this, you are too. I’d recommend cheesecake for your heart ache, or is that actually just a tummy ache? With lactose intolerance, it’s always hard to tell.