Sometimes I like to sit at bars or coffee shops alone and listen. It is at one of these libationous facilities where I sit now, listening to the clamor of the surrounding, and also inherintley with, humanity of close proximal distance.
Funny enough, Robert Miles' "children" plays in the background.It is not with human nature that I am ever concerned (as if I could even feign an even shallow conceptual understanding of what that might actually be). It is, perhaps, the current condition of humanity that I find myself drawn to inquiry of.
The instance I find myself compelled to write about is one of the wholly shallow and uninteresting conversations here. It seems to me that the three females are infatuated with a recent addition to the room. Their conversation never leaves the scripted play of the primetime drama: succinct, non inspiring, and wholly without genuine substance.
My questions lie in that of friendship, what is it that makes true friend? It seems to be either escaping us in action and ability in whole, or it remains to be seen what the force that compells, and allows the ability to be a friend.
Is it such that we only know how to interact, how to relate to one another through descriptions of outward experience? How often is it that you discuss things other than your actions or other's actions. It seems to me that we discuss the phenomelogical over all other things. It is like Plato's allegory of the cave - whomever is best at naming the shapes on the wall wins. What if we are still relating in a way that is still on that level - but whenever a person comes through and tries to take it to a deeper level, they are chastized because of their seeming inability to play that game.
My suspicions are that we need another game. But thats another night, and another pint.
Ill get back to my beer now.
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