A Rampant, Messy, Torrent Stream of Consciousness On Intimacy

A cigarette outside the bar, a little after midnight. Passed between fingers, lips touching in the same place. Thanks, man. They will never see each other again. Probably. Two girls, strangers, touching up their makeup side by side, sharing the same mirror, sharing the same mascara. No, that color doesn’t go with your skin tone, try this shade. Here, I have it. Pulling out a book from the shelf, unknown author, never heard of this title before. That’s a great book. Really? Yeah, you should give it a go. But if you don’t enjoy it, it wasn’t me! Shared laughter, pleasantries, goodbyes. The quiet but incessant chatter in a movie theater. Friends, lovers, and families, all spread out, connected by conversations and the low hum of anticipation. The lights dim. The chatter quickly mutes itself. Silence, an unspoken, universal law. Quiet, excitement sifting through the crowd. 

Shared intimacies in the most random of places. The bathroom of a house party, against the brick wall outside the club, passing each other on an escalator, between the shelves in the library. I think about the small moments, moments that are forgotten within seconds, moments of unabashedly human intimacy that come to us so naturally that we often overlook them. Apple slices on the kitchen table after every dinner whenever I visit home. Walking into someone’s room for the first time. Just a room. Nothing but a room, a room that holds all the things they hold closest to them: their clothes, their memories, their secrets. Just a room. Can I have one? Here, it’s my last piece but you can have it. Are you sure? Of course. 

I think about the strangers that get to experience us in the most hauntingly, intimate ways. A surgeon, a stranger, putting their hands under my skin, holding the most grotesque parts of me and still thinking it’s beautiful. Taking me apart and gently putting me back together. Can you get any closer to somebody else? They have seen my beating heart. The Uber driver, watching me through the rearview mirror, not a predatory look but one from a place of concern as I sob in the backseat. The amount of stories they must hear, the number of secrets and memories made in that backseat. I am just one passenger, but they have offered me a place of quiet and solitude, a haven for my thoughts to run wild. The barista at the cafe around the corner. She doesn’t know my last name, she doesn’t know how old I am or how I just got off the phone, arguing with my mom, but she does know how I take my coffee. She knows just the right amount of cream and sugar I need, she knows my face and my smile. There isn’t much more she needs to know. I don’t even know her last name.

There is intimacy in everything. There is beauty in everything. You just have to know where to look for it. An unmade bed, blankets strewn haphazardly over sheets, the remnants of dreams and a hasty wake-up call. The lipstick stain on a coffee mug, yet I press my lips in the same place when you offer me a sip. A song recommendation from a friend. Oh, how sweet that is. How lovely it is that you heard this piece of music and thought of me, thought that it would be something I’d enjoy as well. Thank you for letting me live in the depths of your mind; I am very comfortable here. I ask you your horoscope, when is your birthday? You look at me with confusion and slight disdain in your eyes. That stuff doesn’t matter. Forgive me. I just wanted to know you a little better. If you will not allow me into seeing who you are, you really have left me with no choice. Are you kind? Are you loyal? Do you feel your emotions in your head or in your chest? Sorry, forgive me. I would just like to know you better.

It’s my rejection of nihilism that pushes me to find joy in the mundane. It’s my greatest weapon against the trap of the belief that we live in a meaningless world. The romance I find in a smile from a stranger and a good night text is a crutch. Enthusiasm for the small things, intimacies found in the crevices of your life, these are fundamental food groups. If you don’t indulge yourself in the idealism of a morning walk and reading on the subway, your soul will become anemic, your bones brittle and will crumble to the touch. Do not let a jaded world suck the life out of you. Embrace your days with childlike wonder, look at how the stars twinkle so bright for you. 

Love is stored in the hands, intimacy in the creases of my fingers. Look at how my hands fit perfectly in yours, how perfectly they interlock. Happy memories in your eyes, and if I stare long enough, I see the world in Technicolor, hues of your perfect shade of blue. My name coming from your mouth, so soft and tender and intimate. It takes my breath away, you just saying my name, watching your lips make its way around each letter. No other word makes my mouth as tender as calling your name. 

The indentations of a stranger’s footprints in the freshly fallen snow; I follow in their steps, the soles of my feet fitting perfectly in each divot. Small talk? No, it was quite big to me. I want to know the depths of your soul, and I am just scratching the surface. Silence as I sit next to you. That’s okay, we don’t need to speak. Your presence is enough. Life will wither you, but only if you let it. You may fall from the tree like ripe fruit, rolling through the grass with bruises until you are soft inside. But there is beauty everywhere. There is intimacy everywhere. But only if you look for it. You may have to get on your hands and knees, you may have to pry your eyes open a little wider. But I promise you, it is always there. 

How perfect this is, how lucky we are.