Conversation

By Drishti Kedia

In the dead of the night, two friends so defeated by love and grief and all things human talk of god and His wars. That's all they had for each other- conversation. It helps them uncurl the fist that they have pointed at the sky, the diamond palace of the gods.

He takes a sip of my coffee and looks at the world laid out in front of him to fight. He's like Achilles getting armored for Troy, and he doesn't know what part of himself is going to get him killed. 

I say, ask god.

"I feel like god is a protagonist who is an anti-hero. He's not superior and He makes mistakes."

Scared to wage a war against Him, I say

He's tired. Immortal blood runs tired. Nothing we can do about it.

"He is just an excuse for humans to not question their existence."

Or god is an excuse for humans to run away from their destiny, their responsibilities because god has a plan.

"Replace god with the word love."

Nothing changes.

Love is two-faced.

"Destiny is beautiful."

It's always some fate, some you. If destiny is all you have, then you are a nihilist.

"There are questions we can't answer. So we made god right."

"Humans are wretched."

You sound defeated.

Things will get better maybe, by His grace."

That's not god. That's hope.

"Trust me, hope made god."

Did it? Maybe only if you think about it too deeply.

“Wwhen do we not think deeply?"

There is conflict in everything.

It's a full circle. And yet not.

The world is beautiful and the world is cruel.

"Cruelty is what makes it beautiful."

Just the artist's tendency to see the beauty in the beast.

There's a slight pause at this. It's started to rain and my vision is blurred from the smoke of his cigarette. The lights from the city below us flicker like stars and all we have in this moment is the infinite above us, and the tragic below us.

What about us, you ask? we cease to exist in this moment. We are also infinitely tragic in this moment. Simultaneously. Like the workings of the clock.

"All we have is faith to understand it one day."

But will we ever? I think, but don't say it. Conversations like these always end on a hopeful note, and perhaps a slight sense of belonging, but they are never finished.

The words always linger in the air long after they've been whispered, long after they've been used and crushed like his cigarette at our feet now.

Things unsaid- they remain unsaid. Your body has to bear the weight of its corpse until the end of time.

(And oh, they so beautifully will carry it too. Like Atlas.)

By Drishti Kedia