Noam Chomsky, Mince Pies, and Anne Frank

Noam Chomsky, Mince Pies, and Anne Frank

“What do you think the meaning of life is?” Emmy asks.

I stare at her, watching the cigarette stuck between her lips slowly burn down as she pondered this herself.

“I haven’t ever given it much thought,” I say.

“Do you not think it is the kind of question that demands significant thought?”

“Maybe so… though, even if we found an answer, do you really think it would make a difference to anything, to our daily lives?”

“I don’t know. Maybe then, all those little problems we have might seem less significant, they might take up less time than they currently do? What do you think?”

“I guess we can never know whichever way?”

“Why’s that?” She asks, taking a long drag on her cigarette.

“Because it would be foolish to think we are going to stumble on the meaning of life anytime soon. We don’t even know what we are looking for, nor what shape of form it comes in. And then, even if we did manage to find something, it would be impossible for all people to agree on that one thing.”

She tilts her head. “I suppose you are right…”

“Maybe it’s not all bad, though.”

“How come?”

“We could attempt to find a… more inclusive meaning, you know, for our own lives?”

“Alright then, what’s your reason, for living?”

I think about this, put on the spot, it is not as easy as it may first seem. “There are many things… you of course,” Emmy glances at me and smiles. “And, there are books, and happiness, love, coffee, mince pies, sex, Noam Chomsky, candles… and I would say death too.”

Emmy grunts, “death?”

“Why not?” I say. “We celebrate living, what about death? Sitting at the end of all things, I suppose it feels mightily lonely.”

She shrugs, and smiles a little more.

“So, how about you?” I ask.

“Well, of course there is you too,” this time I smile. “Beyond that… barbeques maybe, cereal bars, Anne Frank, The Walking Dead. Oh… and of course, the sex.”

“Can’t say it’s a terrible mix,” I laugh.

I head to the fridge, pull out two beers, and hand her one. She stubs out what remains of the cigarette and takes a long swig, inspecting the half-empty bottle afterwards.

“So, what do you want to do tomorrow?” She asks.

“I could make breakfast, then we could go for a stroll, and then the cinema later on?”

She shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

We both empty the beers, sit back, and stare at each other. The only things we feel and know for certain, are the smiles on our faces.




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