“I saw how soft her lips were.”
He told me as we smoked cigarettes under the shelter of the Regis Building. It was raining the whole day. What was once a gift from the gods on a hot day has become an obstacle to comfort at night. As the water hits the walls, causing a film of shininess to envelope the building in the evening, a shiver caused by remnant wetness challenged me from paying attention.
“You know, if I could just tell her how I feel, I’d stop wondering. I’ll stop thinking of the ‘what if’s’ or whatever.”
I just stared into the road avenue right in front of us, the sound of cars speeding by accenting the words coming from his mouth. I just wanted to listen to what he has to say. What he had to let go off.
“And at that point, I imagined me just kissing her. I wanted to tell her that we could prove St. Anselm right. That an idea that only exists inside our mind is inferior to that same idea that exists in reality. I wanted to show her that we can make a reality beyond anything that we can think of.”
“Yeah, do that. Then ask what her boyfriend thinks about you defining an imaginary reality.”
He just stared across the road. He knew I was right. He didn’t want to do anything because he couldn’t do anything.
“I mean, you could tell her. Achieve something out of it. End your turmoil of not knowing and come to terms with what is and what isn’t.”
“I need that. I really do.” He said with a face heavy with realization, weighted with sadness that emanated from his brain and crushed his heart.
We stood there, silent for moments and moments.
“Robert Frost. The Road Not Taken.”
“Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken. We go through our lives choosing so many paths. Diverging from one another, converging to one another.”
“I think what Robert Frost wants to tell us is that we may choose the right path. We may choose the wrong path. What’s important is that we actually do the choosing.”
I wanted to tell him that I agreed wholeheartedly. But I knew that the silence was needed. I knew that the silence was a catalyst for us to absorb what he had just realized, what he just said.
“Have you ever imagined the fact that there can be infinite infinities?”
I ended the silence as the rain’s ritual beat echoed on.
“Yes, infinite infinities. Our lives start at one focal point. We were born and that’s an outcome that can never rely on our choice. We have that one single moment to blame for everything that happened to us. But, the thing is, as we live and grow and choose decisions, we generate infinities.”
“The decisions that we make generate two different outcomes, two different futures. One where we did one thing, another where we didn’t.”
“Exactly. We split ourselves into different dimensions of futures. And those forms of ourselves split themselves even further. Infinite Infinities. And in each decision, so many things could be different. You could be with that person in one infinity while I could be with Emma Watson.”
“So what’s the point in the existence of Infinite Infinities?”
“What you mentioned a while ago. The important thing is that we choose. With one choice, we create a genesis of potential. We create infinities beyond what we can comprehend. All of that stems from us choosing.”
“I see.” His face still sunken with a plague of questions.
“And at the end of all our infinite infinities, we all go back to another single point. Our death. We all die, whether we choose to or not. And with that our realities are tied back together. We become a single existence, a single fact again.”
Silence again. Every other noise in the background has become precisely what it was. Background noise. Our silence was deafening. Enough to hear our thinking brains generating realizations as the rain performed its dance routine everywhere.
“So what should I do with this girl?”
We smoked one last cigarette as the rain reached the denouement of it’s lifespan. We stood there, two friends thinking about abstraction in the reality of life. We stood there asking questions. We stood there, choosing.
We parted ways once the rain stopped, thankful that we had learned at least a little bit about the chaos of life.
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Weekly Writing Challenge: Dialogue
Image of the Regis Building from Andreo Bongco. Check him out!