Top Image: Face Games by Dan Zim
"Hey Jeff, how’s it going?” I don’t respond; my insides twist in anticipation of another simple conversation …
“Jeff buddy-bro, what’s up, it’s me.”
I think to myself, wow, you’re persistent; maybe you have something important to say, for once. As I turn, his proper appearance and collared shirt greets me with a kind intellectual slap in the face; he must have become one over Christmas. As I try to overcompensate for the initial lack of response, a friendly,“Hey!” pukes out of my mouth. He looks eagerly into my eyes, as if we are having some sort of long awaited reunion; then he begins to speak.
“So how was your Christmas holiday? It is really a shame that we did not shit-faced over the break. I had a really great Christmas. I think I was drunk for six out of the five days off, ha-ha. It sucks to be back in school….”
My thoughts trail off; I cannot stand this part of life—that is, the part where you entertain somebody’s stupidity with a couple of chuckles out of kindness. I begin to wish that I had actually vomited on his shirt. At least then I would have something to laugh at. I am a real jerk.
I enter the conversation again with some head nods, but before I know it, the awkward silence begins. Time begins to drag, and my throat begins to dry. Blast! More and more of my conversations seem to end this way; you need to redeem yourself. Say something you coward! But what do I say? Should I ask him how his classes are? No, that will only force the conversation deeper into a topic I don’t care about. What if I ask him something regarding what I have been thinking about? No, I cannot. Surely his response will be, ”I don’t know,” or “just do what’s best for you and have fun.” Responses as such only dig the conversation into an argumentative hole, a hole that I am sick of tripping into. My tongue recedes to the back of my mouth in shame.
He perks up, as if we did not just fall in a puddle of awkward silence. “Well, I should get going. Nice to see you,” he says, as he pats me on the back.
I respond with a friendly smile and a head nod: “nice to see you too, take care.”
I turn and walk away, down the hall and out the door.
The cold weather greets me with another slap in the face. “Wow, two slaps in one day!” I chuckle to myself. This slap, however, was fierce. The minus thirty weather makes my face tingle and eye lashes stick together. It would suck to be a bike messenger today.
As I walk to the bus stop, I decide to take the long way. The long way allows me to look over the North Saskatchewan River. It is often beautiful around this time of year. I need a little beauty right now.
On my stroll I try to engage with nature, rather than with my own thoughts, but despite my effort my mind receded back into the conversation. I can’t seem to figure it out: why do I view conversations so negatively? After all, we are all humans. Why can’t I give them the respect they deserve? But wait, do they deserve any? If the best thing he can talk to me about is how much he drank over Christmas, then why should I even acknowledge him? That being said, I daydream about puking on people. Why should they talk to me? Well, I don’t think they would if they knew what I was thinking.
Who am I to judge what others can offer me? I am not omniscient. I was taught that you could learn something from everyone. My old self knew that. Back when I was doing a lot of charity work, I could connect with and learn from anyone. My mind was so open back then. Conversations and life were not so exhausting back then.
I take a break from my thoughts, and I look up at the scenery. Everything is dead, and the river looks disgusting. But yet, something about its barren, dull, dryness draws me in. I find a seat on an old wooden bench. It is dusted with frost; lovers names are carved into it. Maybe lovers get it. Maybe they understand the essence of emotional, honest, thought provoking conversation—conversation that matters, conversation that is sometimes unsettling. Love necessitates such divine openness. I do not know how love can last without these things—unless love is dead, unless society has destroyed love, smothering it with surface-level dirt and pesticides that grow weak-rooted flowers, flowers that are immune and ignorant to life’s reality, love that can be blown over by the winds of tribulation.
Forgive me for my thoughts, so rude and clumsy. Perhaps you are thinking that this is a strange topic. Perhaps I have been whining about it for long enough. Maybe you, gentle reader, are right; however, I hope you can see the idea beneath the words. You need to understand that I don’t appreciate mundane emotionless conversation, and neither should you. We deserve more than that. Such talk is soul swallowing. It saddens me to think of minds that are filled with emptiness and lives that are full of superficial kindness. The real tragedy, however, is that people view these conversations as normal and engage in them all the time, filling their days with soulless banalities. They seem to enjoy them and build friendships on them. If this is what conversations are, then we need a revolutionary conversationalist—someone that can share honest conversation, conversation that whisks the soul out of its stagnant slumber, and bonds minds to elicit ideas and innovations--a revolutionary--someone to reveal the true nature and purpose of humans’ evolutionary advantage: consciousness. But until then my cowardly nature chooses inaction; I am incapable of bringing about this revolution. Abstinence from conversation is my solution, abstinence with a pen in my hand, producing a conversation more impressive than you and I could ever produce.
