I have a strange relationship with conversations.
Conversations are strange beasties, and they come in many shapes and sizes. Some are small and quick, little insects of interaction. “Hey, how’s it going?” “Oh fine, I’m just off to an appointment” “Oh nice, well see you later” “See you later”. There’s no thinking needed to have a conversation like this. You can have them with someone you barely know or someone you love (although the tone will likely be different).
Then there are the longer conversations with acquaintances, and these are the ones I can dislike. Especially the ones that start as chance encounters. You see them in the distance and wonder, are they going to stop, then get closer and they see you and you wave and oh no oh gosh they’re slowing down… Then you’ll ask how they are and they’ll give a surface level answer and then it’s your turn, rinse-repeat. And all the while the great question hovering over both of you (in big cursive type, when I imagine it) is whether either of you actually gives a shit. Sometimes I know I don’t, and feel like the whole chat is a lie, myself included.
And there are many degrees of such conversations, a sliding scale of awkwardness. But on the other end, oh on the other end…
Sometimes you’ll talk to someone and it’ll be as natural as breathing. You talk and the words flow until there’s only sentences until there’s only breathes until there’s only thoughts. It’s not speaking, not anymore, it’s sharing, it’s showing yourself to them. You lose track of time, and (as I’ve written about before), you lose yourself, too.
Anyway call me a Christmas sentimentalist but I think that’s beautiful.