Conversation over Midnight

Piercing into the darkness through charcoal stained irises, his eyes erect a wall of impenetrable confidence, of beliefs

so unwavering they pride themselves on tiptoeing slightly above camouflaged uncertainty. Their all knowing glare orients

itself in my direction, as I detect a glimmer of madness in them more truthful than those of the most rational men. Their

intensity peaks my interest, drawing me into a world of curious unknowns. Fear and comfort run through my veins as brown

irises collide, forcing a connection whose mysteriousness seems to lessen the developing surrealism quickly befalling us.

We've been talking for some time now, him and I; for exactly how long, neither of us can be certain. After providing

me with the bare essentials necessary for comprehension, he begins to rattle off random detail after discombobulated fact

which, when taken as a whole, some might call conspiracy theory. Still, as he starts explaining his version of the world, I

realize his words connect together in a form free from conventional logic. If his words were written down, I know they'd look

crazy. But as I look into his dark eyes searching for the reasons behind human interaction and personal tragedy, I can't

help but see my struggles within them. His speech is rapid yet controlled. His mind races through his mouth, weaving

together a series of conflicts even he can't quite understand. As he continues I can't help but want to know why he's being

so open with me…. With his spiritual progression predicated on tirelessly pushing a bolder up and down, up and down life's

existential hill, I asked myself how he could separate his own perception of consciousness from the world view he

prescribes to? The answer, I told myself: he can't.

Rarely do I ever, especially when normally operating through rose-colored glasses, issue a judgment with such

deathly finality. For me, that makes this particular absolution that much more important: it is his fears, his human torment

which lends his philosophy legitimacy. Abstractions formed without passion are no more powerful than ideology formed

without true belief. But when I stare into the depths of his old soul, I see more than ill-formulated ideals. I can't help but

connect to his genuine desperation for answers to universal questions which in that car, in that moment, seem inextricably

linked to his existence. I feel my heart reaching out to his, as if his perspective might diffuse across the communal oxygen

supply which currently sustains us. I desperately want to know his pain in hopes of discovering the roots of mine. But, when

it comes down to it, it's really not about me. It's not even about him. As the chatter continues to flow freely between the

leather headrest that separates us, I realize it's really about the connection between us, about what we intend to do with

the understanding we gain from one another.