“I am truly free. I am not burdened by caring. I am not tied to anything, not my beliefs, not even my own self preservation. I have escaped time.”
Seeta laughed. “This existentialist nirvana is very theatrical Tamerlane, but I know that it’s something you can only ever aspire to. You told me in your last grand abstraction that you were scared of yourself. To be scared, especially of yourself, you have to care.”
“You’re wrong. You see, the best part of not caring is that I get to contradict myself. I simply make a game of reconciling these contradictions with rhetoric. Life wouldn't be fun if we didn't keep some rules. So, I will play your game.” I paused. “I am not scared of myself. I have surrendered myself, my morality, my desire to accomplish something, my fear. I have surrendered these things in return for my own freedom. You were close with your ‘existentialist nirvana’. But both the buddhists and the existentialists omitted one thing: Passion. They thought passion was driven by belief, but for me it can be as senseless as pleasure, or as… as joy. You can call me a wanna-be Meursault, but the truth is: I’m Zorba ” I gestured to the books that lay absurdly strewn across the floor like corpses, “I can teach you to dance.”
“If I didn't know you as well as I do, I would be terrified.”
I grinned. “Don’t worry, the thing I am most passionate about is good conversation. I think it’s you, so logical, so linear, so beautifully deranged; drunk on you your own ideology. That the universe should be scared of.”
“But you have just made yourself into the perfect weapon. If only what you just told me was more than dramatic pontification.” she sighed
“Gah! I hate this. You're making me proselytize myself. You're forcing me to distill myself into an understandable abstraction.”
“That's what I thought you always wanted. I thought you wanted to be a story.”
“I wanted to be seen as a story. I wanted to be as delightfully simple as a story. But I never wanted to feel confined by one. I am starting to believe the bullshit I just told you.” I looked down at my feet. “This is why the farthest I ever dived into existentialism was Camus. I avoided Sartre even more thoroughly than I avoided the rest of my homework.”
“You talk a good game, but people who avoid their homework don’t reference 20th century movies and use the word proselytize in casual conversation.” She smiled. It was a bit patronizing. “Come on. Let’s go to an interrogation room. It’s much more comfortable.”
“For you, I am perfectly comfortable here.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t want a change of scenery.”
“I am determined to be contrary.”
“Then what is the point of having a conversation at all. If you just negate everything I say, the conversation will be very boring. Contrariety isn't a good strategy to play with. It’s only good for pouting.”
“But it’s an excellent strategy, if you want to avoid playing.”
“When have you ever wanted to avoid playing?”
“I am tired. I depressed myself.”
“I thought people who had reached your level of enlightenment couldn't be depressed.”
“Depression is a form of passion.”
“God! I wish you knew how powerful your words are. I wish you used them for something greater than winning. I wish you believed the things that you say.” Her head was bent in a ferocious grimace. “You would be so… perfect.” She finished.
“It is exactly the lassez-faire nature of my comments that lends me perfection. I am never wrong because I don’t care about the truth.”
“And you did it again. Write a book. Write poetry if you’re too lazy. What happened to all those essays you wrote for school? The ones you would try to ridicule, reading them to me in your most pretentious accent. I laughed, but secretly I thought that if you looked beyond the superfluous word choice, each one was a masterpiece.”
Seeta laughed. “This existentialist nirvana is very theatrical Tamerlane, but I know that it’s something you can only ever aspire to. You told me in your last grand abstraction that you were scared of yourself. To be scared, especially of yourself, you have to care.”
“You’re wrong. You see, the best part of not caring is that I get to contradict myself. I simply make a game of reconciling these contradictions with rhetoric. Life wouldn't be fun if we didn't keep some rules. So, I will play your game.” I paused. “I am not scared of myself. I have surrendered myself, my morality, my desire to accomplish something, my fear. I have surrendered these things in return for my own freedom. You were close with your ‘existentialist nirvana’. But both the buddhists and the existentialists omitted one thing: Passion. They thought passion was driven by belief, but for me it can be as senseless as pleasure, or as… as joy. You can call me a wanna-be Meursault, but the truth is: I’m Zorba ” I gestured to the books that lay absurdly strewn across the floor like corpses, “I can teach you to dance.”
“If I didn't know you as well as I do, I would be terrified.”
I grinned. “Don’t worry, the thing I am most passionate about is good conversation. I think it’s you, so logical, so linear, so beautifully deranged; drunk on you your own ideology. That the universe should be scared of.”
“But you have just made yourself into the perfect weapon. If only what you just told me was more than dramatic pontification.” she sighed
“Gah! I hate this. You're making me proselytize myself. You're forcing me to distill myself into an understandable abstraction.”
“That's what I thought you always wanted. I thought you wanted to be a story.”
“I wanted to be seen as a story. I wanted to be as delightfully simple as a story. But I never wanted to feel confined by one. I am starting to believe the bullshit I just told you.” I looked down at my feet. “This is why the farthest I ever dived into existentialism was Camus. I avoided Sartre even more thoroughly than I avoided the rest of my homework.”
“You talk a good game, but people who avoid their homework don’t reference 20th century movies and use the word proselytize in casual conversation.” She smiled. It was a bit patronizing. “Come on. Let’s go to an interrogation room. It’s much more comfortable.”
“For you, I am perfectly comfortable here.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t want a change of scenery.”
“I am determined to be contrary.”
“Then what is the point of having a conversation at all. If you just negate everything I say, the conversation will be very boring. Contrariety isn't a good strategy to play with. It’s only good for pouting.”
“But it’s an excellent strategy, if you want to avoid playing.”
“When have you ever wanted to avoid playing?”
“I am tired. I depressed myself.”
“I thought people who had reached your level of enlightenment couldn't be depressed.”
“Depression is a form of passion.”
“God! I wish you knew how powerful your words are. I wish you used them for something greater than winning. I wish you believed the things that you say.” Her head was bent in a ferocious grimace. “You would be so… perfect.” She finished.
“It is exactly the lassez-faire nature of my comments that lends me perfection. I am never wrong because I don’t care about the truth.”
“And you did it again. Write a book. Write poetry if you’re too lazy. What happened to all those essays you wrote for school? The ones you would try to ridicule, reading them to me in your most pretentious accent. I laughed, but secretly I thought that if you looked beyond the superfluous word choice, each one was a masterpiece.”
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