I’ve just finished reading chapter 30 of About a Boy, by Nick Hornby. Will, one of the protagonists, has just had sex with Rachel, a girl whose redefined the way Will’s been able to look not only at female companionship, but also at his own life and the way he’s been living it before meeting her.
Will’s only experiencing a sense of natural euphoria now, in his mid 30’s; I’m not even sure if he realizes this. I’m not really sure if it matters.
What’s astounding though, is the moment. Will was so tethered to his first moment genuine happiness, that he was nearly tearful. I think that’s where the recognition of “the moment” started to settle in my mind like fog.
It’s these moments we have to cherish, it’s because of this moment I’m not going to finish this book just yet. I want to relish not only Will’s happiness, but my recognition in his happiness. I want to identify, shape, and express that recognition properly, before it slips away.
I’m not reading anymore because this is more than likely the climax of the book; it’s not just that though - it’s tangible. I can readily stretch out and grab the feelings emanating from Will. They don’t have a reason or an explanation to disappear yet, and I like it this way for now.
These are the moments I would like to put down the book of my life at, take a break to think over everything that’s just transpired. I wish it was possible to place a book mark carefully in there, nestle it lightly between the pages of euphoria and any disasters to follow; take a nice little break. It’d be nice to look at the book resting on an oak table, maybe light up a cigarette and inhale the time gratefully; like taking a healthy breather just before diving back into the novel of your life.
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