Originally written: 15 July 2010
You need not always say things to convey them. Sometimes, implying them is enough to get the message across—unless, of course, the person you’re dealing with is insensitive, oblivious, or simply too slow to catch the drift.
I know. I’m too emotional to be considered intellectual. According to WordWeb, being cerebral involves intelligence rather than emotions or instinct. But that’s WordWeb. Who the hell filters what gets published in that stupid computer program that generates definitions, synonyms, antonyms, and derivations of English words?
You came up with yet another adjective for me—nonconformist. You said I would have been better off living as a hermit. I never saw myself that way. I always thought of myself as conservative and conforming.
Oh, well…
I’m a classic case of a walking oxymoron.
A conservative nonconformist.
A sweet nightmare.
An untamed civilization.
I feel high when I’m sober.
I have idiosyncrasies.
I don’t remember how our conversation shifted from distinct animal behaviors to surfing the waves of life, then to world history, and eventually to human virtues and conduct.
We talked about them as though we were merely spectators—detached observers studying the strange creatures that we ourselves happened to be. At one point, I almost convinced myself that I was a seahorse, which, for some inexplicable reason, we always seem to think of as an extraterrestrial creature.
In your attempt to emphasize the superiority of respect over love, you cited an example of people trying to jump onto the bandwagon that glorifies love and told me to join them.
I wanted to tell you that I used to be on that bandwagon.
I have since alighted.
Somewhere along the way, I realized that love has been overrated—and continues to be.
You said that respect is greater than love.
It was the first time I had heard such a theory, so I had to pause, listen, and search within myself for what I thought about it.
While love is formless and baseless, respect has a life of its own.
“It has to be earned,” I added.
And one has to work on it. Just like the herbal plants in your garden, respect has to be cultivated for it to grow.
“Doesn’t love, too?” I asked.
You nodded, undecidedly.
Love, I have come to think, is sometimes an alibi people use to excuse their foolishness—in the hope that invoking love will somehow absolve them of their imbecility.
I love you, and therefore, I am forgiven.
I did it because I love you, and therefore, it must have been right.
Love made me do it.
Thinking that you considered respect the highest form of human virtue, I presented mine—faith.
And by faith, I wasn’t referring only to our faith in God. I was thinking more about the faith we place in the people we choose to mingle with, trust, and allow into our lives.
Faith is the greatest form of trust.
You agreed—but not entirely.
I wonder why we love engaging in conversations that lead us toward more disagreements rather than toward further confirmation of each other’s thoughts.
Perhaps agreement is overrated, too.
Acceptance is just a fad. Why settle for it?
While waiting for our buses to arrive, you suddenly asked, “What do you think is the gender of respect?”
I saw something resembling awe in your eyes when I declared:
“All virtues are feminine, while all vices are masculine.”
You simply wouldn’t succumb to my crazy idea.
You said you were going to find a vice that was feminine.
Fair enough.
In our earlier conversations, we had decided that love was asexual. But now I’m beginning to think we should reconsider.
Love might be a hermaphrodite.
I suppose we’ll have to examine that more closely next time.
And somehow, it amazes me how a conversation can wander so far from where it began without either of us noticing the journey.
One minute, we’re talking about animals.
The next, we’re surfing the waves of life.
Then we’re discussing history, virtue, morality, love, respect, faith, gender, and the strange architecture of human behavior.
And somehow, none of it feels out of place.
At three in the morning on a Wednesday, my tummy was full, and so was my soul.
Cranially stimulating topics came after my second batch of burgers and just before your bus arrived.
There are conversations that merely occupy time.
And then there are conversations that make you forget time exists.
I would trade my precious sleep for this kind of adrenocorticotrophic schmooze any night.
After all, sleep can be recovered.
A good conversation, unfortunately, cannot always be repeated.
