I look towards the open sky: nothing in sight. They say it will rain soon, and we will see the hills again. This is all anyone says when they talk about the weather. Perhaps a script was distributed when December began. I must have missed it—trips here and there. Now, I am stupefied as I stare at the nothingness of the city. The fog does not help, and it, too, is what most people talk about on dinner tables in bars we have frequented ever since we first learned to drink, where we learned how to drink. I do not know why everyone talks the same way, why they say the same things, why all of their complaints and all their wants are the same.
I talked to a score of people today, some strange, some familiar faces. Now, as I stand here with my mug of chamomile and nothing to look at, I think of an experiment. I could picture their faces floating in the air as if the fog ahead was a whiteboard and then draw circles around those who said the exact same things. If I could do this experiment, I would end up with about three circles.
Now, I am aware of the futility of it, and to think all people are the same simply based on what they talk about is superficial and, dare I say, elitist thinking. But as much as people are not replicas, they are also not entirely unlike each other. I reckon this is a good thing. It means there will always be something to share some time, a meal or a drink, and there will always be something common among any two people you put together.
The other day, angry as I was over some paperwork, my brother took the same thing, turned it on its head, and made it sound as if it were a good sign I was asked by my bank to fill out a few additional forms. I could see his intention, but it made me think of how every event, every thought, every moment is malleable. That if we bend things enough, that if we are careful and do not destroy what we have in our hands, we could make it appear precisely how we wanted it, that we could take our frustration-filled tirades and make them sound like the only song we ever wanted to hear.
This, and only this, is my defence against my growing contempt for the world—a world I deeply love at that.