An Old Friend
There is little in life more comforting than a really old friend.
I don’t mean a friend who’s senile and decrepit, but a friend who’s been your friend since before you discovered who you were. A friend who knew and loved you even when you have wild and crazy dreams, when you were erratic and eccentric and boy-crazy and made poor judgments and dated bad choices and were arrogant and ignorant and naïve and pompous and proud and insecure all at the same time. The kind of friend who can laugh at you and with you, a friend who can finish your sentences and says all the things you need to hear and implies the things you need to hear but don’t want to hear and who inspires you to look at the world differently even though you’ve been looking out at it together for decades. The kind of friend in whose house you always feel at home because you play the dynamic so casually and familiarly and she knows when you’re hungry or that you’ll be too hot unless you leave the window open. Her parents feel like family because they, too, have loved you since before you were you and they hug you ferociously and sometimes your feet come off the ground. The kind of friend that you can sit quietly with or with whom you can share your neuroses and be comforted knowing she has the same ones.
She suspends judgment.
Nothing surprises her.
You feel centered and grounded and calmed and peaceful after being with her because you remember the most important parts of where you came from, the parts that carved you out and eroded at the edges of your being, the pains and joys and lessons that sculpted your person. You see yourself clearer through the eyes of an old friend.
You remember who you are.
There is little in life more comforting than a really old friend.
I don’t mean a friend who’s senile and decrepit, but a friend who’s been your friend since before you discovered who you were. A friend who knew and loved you even when you have wild and crazy dreams, when you were erratic and eccentric and boy-crazy and made poor judgments and dated bad choices and were arrogant and ignorant and naïve and pompous and proud and insecure all at the same time. The kind of friend who can laugh at you and with you, a friend who can finish your sentences and says all the things you need to hear and implies the things you need to hear but don’t want to hear and who inspires you to look at the world differently even though you’ve been looking out at it together for decades. The kind of friend in whose house you always feel at home because you play the dynamic so casually and familiarly and she knows when you’re hungry or that you’ll be too hot unless you leave the window open. Her parents feel like family because they, too, have loved you since before you were you and they hug you ferociously and sometimes your feet come off the ground. The kind of friend that you can sit quietly with or with whom you can share your neuroses and be comforted knowing she has the same ones.
She suspends judgment.
Nothing surprises her.
You feel centered and grounded and calmed and peaceful after being with her because you remember the most important parts of where you came from, the parts that carved you out and eroded at the edges of your being, the pains and joys and lessons that sculpted your person. You see yourself clearer through the eyes of an old friend.
You remember who you are.
1 comment:
I love you too
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