An Inhuman Condition

A fireplace pops and flickers on the tavern wall – the electric lights submissive and low. Dancing shadows paint the patrons’ faces like barbarians prepped for battle, and the mood is calm, spirit-enticed reverie. They pass pints to and fro’, smiling softly at the shared stories, memories and ideas. Evening approaches twilight with the wisdom of age. Its wrinkled features trace the topography of a full life. Tonight has seen the entire world, and any man would be lucky to say he came close in his years.

The corner table rattles and shakes with political discourse – both sides roughly rubbing the other like tectonic plates approaching a quake. Despite the tension, they have seemingly different discussions marching party lines and talking past one another. Nothing is resolved as the night withers away. They all seem to have the same point, “You don’t understand, THIS is how things really are (are headed, should be, etc.).” And none of that will change before morning.

Strangers at the bar exchange pleasant witticisms and mundane stories. They meet one another with self-serving agendas – each of them waiting his turn to top the other’s tales. An accountant recounts his near-death experience in a sixteen-car pileup. The salesman tells them about his flight’s water landing. The cashier had a gun waived in her face last year. Sensational narcissism is tonight’s contagion, and they all have it. “I’m important because I lived through this. Life is a scary and fragile thing. Like me, please.” It’s the human condition at work, and none of that will change before morning.

Old friends squeeze close on couches around the fire. They reminisce days and people past – their beginnings, middles and the night’s end. They reflect one another and melt together in the flame. Like twisted trees growing abreast, they have formed and shaped in sync. The intense light casts drastic contrast on their faces – one bright and clear with the other dark and unknown. Janus smiles all the while, tells the same story a thousand times: “That’s right! Do you remember when …” And none of that will change before morning.

The wars here are intellectual, emotional, spiritual. Time and self are the enemies of acceptance, importance and enlightenment. An individual’s words and thoughts hold little sway in the world, but say a great deal.

The night has seen everything though. It’s come a long way to arrive at this little bar. Nothing can surprise it, and none of that will change before morning.