Casual Conversations
The struggle between hope and despair is universal and strikingly ordinary. No one escapes the pain of existence. Although the degree of suffering varies, everyone witnesses humanity’s struggle for life amidst the ever present threat of death.
This is true both physically and psychologically/spiritually. Indeed, the death of the soul is arguably more painful than the sting of death. For physical death prevents the multiplication of pain, while spiritual death can cause people to embrace living destruction.
The poem below was inspired by two conversations I had while traveling. As an avid reader, I have always been prone to engage in casual conversation with strangers because of the fascinating perspectives it brings to mind, and the powerful reflective material produced.
This poem highlights the simultaneously limited and freeing nature of such encounters.
How honest are strangers with one another? In some ways, the transient nature of such encounters encourages their participants to tell the truth. Why censor your words for someone you will never see again? However, transience can have the opposite effect on truth telling. After all the stranger is none the wiser if words are exaggerated or recklessly spoken.
Still, these conversations, dramatized for poetic impact, stuck with me years after they occurred.
I transformed them into poetic format to examine how individuals in radically different circumstances wrestle with the reality of pain, and the difficulty of understanding human emotions, both in themselves and others.
Casual Conversations
Singular conversations can contain
Insights into the nature of man
An airplane and a cocktail bar
Are among the places strangers converse
Because relational distance is far
Neither party seeks truth to pervert
Each discussion revealed the heart of man
First, meet the psychiatrist on a plane
I. Beyond Hope
The psychiatrist spoke confidently
Some problems reached beyond empathy
Disorders, he said, were genetically fixed
Those who suffer are victims of chemistry
“How do you know the diagnosis is true
What becomes of those whose will is subverted?
Those who bear their pain only to be looked thorough?”
He cocked his head, raised his eyebrow and sighed
“It is science miss, I am trained to rely
On the professional within my mind
There is error . . . life is cruel and unkind
But fear not! Science is just and loving
We study our errors to improve
It is not as if we know nothing
Trust me the process of science is true”
His hands returned to his lap in wait
Prepared for an adversarial question
Instead the query was friendly and straight
“Why are some men beyond transformation?”
Hands he raised, eager science to explain
“Trauma kills any chance at contentment
These people are pathetic and primitive
Their minds are trapped in fear and resentment
Some can change, but most are incapable
Working daily with their pain is hard
They are slaves . . . this is inescapable!
Their lives are hideous, stained, and scarred”
After painting this vivid picture he stopped
Exhausted from the weight of his words
Briefly he looked into my eyes in shock
Then a question broke the silence and he heard
“How do you care for these hopeless men?
Why work with them if their lives are pitiful?
Why go daily into the den of sin?
What is the point if hope is fictional?
Moments passed as he pondered his answer
Then his words pierced the awkward silence
“I am a good person and care they do deserve
I can prevent them from dying in violence
Yes, they are miserable and wretched
My care is all they have to cling to
Still, worse conditions can be prevented
I mitigate pain, that is all I can do.”
He raised his head high, proud of his work
His voice had grown strong and full of passion
The shape of his mouth moved from crooked to smirk
This man wore not the face of compassion
Keen to observe another reply
I asked one last question
“Some of these men in pain surely die
Do you grieve those lost to depression?”
The sound of silence engulfed the air
Momentarily into my eyes he stared|
“Why grieve the loss of a pitiful life
At least they are dead and no longer in strife”
This conversation could only occur on a plane
Nowhere else would he have spoken such words of disdain
Yet thousands of patients were treated by this man
Transformation cut off before it could even begin
The philosophy of science must be understood
Who would want this psychiatrist determining truth?
Now it is time to visit another man
One who entered a discussion unplanned
II. Diagnosing Desires
The bar was quiet, the whiskey good
Fine bourbon opens many a mouth
He spoke, seeking to be understood
With flashing eyes, “I am plagued with doubt!”
“What is it that causes your mind unrest?”
Looking afar he struggled to speak
“There are sins I need to get off my chest
Every day I struggle for I am weak.”
His head fell into his outstretched hands
A feeling of pain permeated the space
“I am afraid I cannot help you feel sane
Do you know what creates this mental place?”
He reached for his drink before answering
Visibly, his mind was busy searching
“I was raised Catholic this is my problem
Mistakes bring me to a place of rock bottom
If only I could shed this endless guilt
I would find happiness and joyful rest
Do you believe this is true, can bliss be built?
Or must I linger forever oppressed?
The man’s voice trailed off into the distance
“When did you leave the church?” I questioned
“I left the church over a decade ago
Since then I have navigated life alone”
“Does this not answer your question? I said
Have you not spent ten years building your life?
Yet you are still plagued with feelings of dread
It may benefit you to analyze your strife”
He raised his eyebrows and met my eyeline
“Where would I even begin such a task?
How can I know when feelings are undefined
Who am I behind my many masks?”
“I cannot answer . . .but you should
Your emotions can be analyzed
Trace feelings through the past, find when they arose
With a starting point give yourself advice
Deep within you know, it just takes time
If you pay the price, your desires you will find
Answers sit atop a mountain you must climb”
Following this in silence we drank
Until the whiskey glasses were empty
As I turned to leave he whispered “thanks”
“I left the church at the age of twenty
Reasons to leave were varied and plenty
But my thoughts were fractured, my actions rash
Tomorrow, I will return to mass”