A Lonely Conversation

He said, “How does it feel that you don’t any friends to celebrate your birthday with, huh?”

“Shut up! Don’t you have anything better to do, besides making me feel bad?” I snapped.

I continued, “You know, I brag in my stories about how you make my life better, interesting.”

“The ones that nobody reads?” he darted back

He was an asshole, at least according to me. Other people seemed to be amused by him.

“You know, I know what you’re thinking?” he continued.

“Like I give a fuck?” I replied.

He seemed to be able to bring about the worst in me.

“Well, if I say that they are quite well-written, would that help?” he asked, a little more considerate to my feelings.

“Yeah!” was my single word reply.

“Anyways, I have friends, they are just out of town,” I said.

“We sure talk a lot among ourselves, huh?” he continued, the conversation veering away from a more confrontational tone.

“Yeah, we do. I’m sorry about the earlier outburst; you know how much I love you,” I said in a soft voice.

“I know, I love you too,” he replied.

After a while, he said, “You know, you don’t have to put on a show for me.”

“I know,” I replied.

He was speaking in context of how I was acting all sorts of silly after he continued to praise my writing a little more.

“Sorry, I have become my role,” I said.

“Yeah! It’s a pity they don’t give out Oscars to people for acting the role of themselves,” he said.

“Tell me about it. After all, it’s the role we all play to our finest abilities,” I replied.

I loved having these conversations with him; deep and of philosophical nature. I think its philosophical anyhow, and I have no regard if people think of it as anything else.

“Yeah, people acting the happiest they can, when they’re not. Do you think the people who act sad, are happy?” he asked.

“I don’t know. What are the chances that I know something that you don’t?” I asked.

“Yeah, very much slim,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

I nodded my head in agreement.

“Why can’t you be happy?” he asked me.

“I don’t know; why are you sad all the time?” I countered.

“I think I’m wired to feel sad all my life,” he replied.

“Shut up! Why do you have to bring the mood down with these feeling for yourself shit?” I asked, a little irritated.

“Sorry. I will try to pretend more lively,” he said.

“Yes, that would be appreciated,” I answered.

I continued, “But I tell you, if you ever think of offing yourself, first you let me know.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Well, I would like to prepare myself for it,” I replied.

“Ok; but I don’t think it will ever come to it. I don’t have it in me,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“You don’t have it in you to off yourself, otherwise you would have done it a lot earlier,” I answered.

“That’s true,” he replied.

“Do you think anyone will miss us, if we were to be swept of the face of the earth?” I asked him.

“I don’t think so, but one can hope,” he said.

I nodded in agreement. I seemed to agree with him on a lot of things.

“But wouldn’t it be selfish on our part to off ourselves, if people mourn in our death?” I asked.

“I don’t know, why are you always the one asking the questions?” he snapped.

“Can’t you think for yourself?” he asked, a little annoyed.

“That’s hurtful,” I said in a way of tone, hoping it would have a comedic effect for someone eavesdropping on the conversation.

“You’re not as funny as you think?” he said, noticing how happy I was with myself.

“I’m pretending!” I exclaimed, annoyed at being disturbed while playing my part.

He apologized immediately.

“Do you wonder what it would be like inside a mad man’s head?” he asked.

“It should be at the very least be interesting, don’t you think?” I replied.

“I hope so; otherwise leading an uninteresting life and people calling you mad; it would be a sad existence,” he conjectured.

“Maybe, they are mad because they are uninteresting,” I said.

“Hmm,” he said, certainly intrigued by my proposition.

“Thank god, we have an interesting life. Otherwise, people might call us mad too,” he said, having accepted my theory as the truth.

“But everybody is mad in some way or other,” I told him.

I said, “Take for instance, that girl who comes in the morning, always running in the same designated path and never stopping to take a look around.”

“Yeah, right. She does not even stop once to notice how beautiful the park is?” he added, a little saddened by the girl’s daily routine.

“But she is quite pretty, wouldn’t you say?” I asked.

“Yeah, that she is. Well, it’s getting late, I will see you tomorrow night,” he said.

The bastard vanished into the thin air without even letting me say good-bye.

As Sammy was passing through the park during her morning run, she saw there was a small crowd accumulated at one side.

Walking up to one of them, she asked, “What’s the matter?”

A lady replied, “The mad man seems to have poisoned himself.”

Taking a look at the lifeless body lying on the ground, Sammy wondered if anybody would miss the man.

She had wondered loud enough for at least one person to hear.

“The people who come here will,” came a reply.

Sammy turned her head around, but couldn’t find a face to match the voice with; and resumed her run after a few seconds, in her predetermined path.