“Why don’t you publish?” Sila cries impatiently.
“When you’re in love, the worst thing to do is to get married.”
“That’s selfish,” she says “Only words that are read can touch hearts.”
“That’s another egotistic reason to publish your work.”
Sila sighs. “I haven’t written anything original so far.”
“There exist no original thoughts, only those not read.”
She jots down this down on her phone like a reporter at work.
“This? Seriously? It’s the most unoriginal conversation. We’re sitting in a jazz bar for crying out loud.”
Sila looks up at me and snorts.
“Okay, why do you think he’s playing Elliot Smith?” I point in the lead singer’s direction who’s playing to a bunch of people lost in their own worlds and couldn’t care less. “For himself, the listeners or the money?”
She takes another sip of her coke. “He doesn’t need a reason.”
“Exactly! Art for art’s sake!”
I miss when we could just exchange our pieces, criticize them and leave those notes to be forgotten. I miss the countdown to a big moment. It always held more hope than the fragile moments after. I stand up to pay the bill. She is walking across the zebra crossing when I catch up with her.
“Nights are overrated.” I say.
“Stars, after all.”
“Many suppress the significance of each.”
“The beauty is not in the repetition but in the space between them and us. It’s in the space between this page and your reader.” She smiles.
“Why record this?” I glance sideways at her. “You’re photographing this. I know you are. Who would want to read this clichéd piece of shit?”