We talk about everything, don’t we! At least we want to.
We talk about things. Mundane, everyday things, and of their nothingness. We talk about people we met, and about people we wish we didn’t. People who left and those who stayed. The goodbyes we said, and the ones we didn’t. The summer that burns, and the wind that bellows. The winter that is coming, the journeys ahead, the ones already completed!
Chaotic, insignificant details of our pseudo-busy lives. Isn’t it fun, you telling me and me telling you, about the crazy, but also inconsequential details sprinkled throughout our days. You, on the highway. Me on the treadmill. My obsession with my phone, and Milan Kundera. You with your worldly lectures on finances. This small world, with little things that brighten our days. Imaginary lives, trips of nostalgia. We talk about forest fires, and falling rain. Places we have been, and the ones we are yet to visit. People-watching, name-calling, gossiping, weaving stories – long, banal, useless stories. How much I love wine, and you your crown royal. Childhood memories, those anecdotes, these conversations. You feel like an ally now. Not a friend, but an ally. Listening to me go on and on about Pablo Neruda and that vague fragrance, the way a new book smells, or an old one. The romance of a train journey, the beauty of fall. This snow globe we live in, and the falling snow!
We never talk about hopes though. Never about how I want to cling to that hope. We never acknowledge our half-fictional lives and the meaning we are trying to find; keeping appearances and fake smiles. The rules you make, and the ones I want to break. We talk about dreamy poetry, dissecting what the poet means. Never about dreams though. This is not a complaint, or a rant. This is a wish. I want these conversations to go on forever. Talk to me about whatever you want, but do talk!