It was then that we were faced with a long, uncomfortable silence. Neither of us seemed to want to acknowledge this lest we would be forced to admit that we could be made uncomfortable.
“You know what it seems like?” I said finally.
“What’s that?” he asked, feigning boredom.
“It seems like life is more about finding ways to put off death than it really is about living. It seems like most of the people I have met and talked with do about anything they can but face the fact that they have wasted their time doing really meaningless things. What is the point of waking up every day? Really? What is the point of taking every breath we take if it is not in search of something greater than our own simplistic mindsets which seem to spin endlessly about trivial idiocies? Why do we, as a species, so often fail to use the thing that supposedly sets us apart from other animals?”
“You mean besides opposing thumbs?” John asked, sipping his drink.
I looked around the room, then back at John.
“You know,” I said as John looked up at me, “I think I really am dead. I think, maybe that night I did die, and I just didn’t bother to realize it…. because, ever since that night, you were the first person who I thought might understand, and you are no better than the rest of them.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, kid,” he said.
“Hey, if it makes you feel any better,” John said, “I’m dead, too.”