The Frozen Wind (A Dialogue)

Chris sits on a park bench. There is snow on the ground and it fall in large flakes. Trees are bent with the weight on their limbs. A tall figure, clad in black, walks across the whited grass. Chris looks up, sees the approaching form, smiles ironically and drops his head to wait. After some time, the figure sits next to Chris on the bench. He (the mysterious figure) has platinum white hair, slicked down with pomade, and brushed perfectly to one side. His face is colder that frozen wind. He is Existential Crisis.


Chris: Hi.

Existential Crisis: Hello. You've been expecting me?

Chris: What do you think I am, a moron? Of course I was.

EC: No. Not a moron. Maybe a little bit too in love with the things around you to admit me.

Chris: Hmpf.

EC: Well?

Chris: Well, what?



EC: Well, it's up to you if I stick around or leave. I have no say in the matter.

Chris: You mean...sit here for awhile.

EC [shrugs]: For awhile or forever. Until you die. Until you kill yourself. As I say...

Chris: ...it's up to me. I get it. But is it?

[EC does not respond. Looks forward, eyes of a blind man. A snowflake lands on an eyelash. He does not blink. The flake melts and drips into his eye. He does not blink. ]

EC: You've been working hard, that's for sure. Doing a lot of thinking, for whatever that's worth.

Chris: We're not going to have the "Ivory Tower" discussion, are we?

EC: No.

Chris: So, the irony is, you have a purpose, even if you won't talk about it?

EC: I didn't say that. That would be paradoxical.

Chris: Didn't have to. But, I'll bite. Let's talk.

EC: As long as you know that means I stick around for at least awhile. Bad things can happen if I stick around even for a bit. Bad, from some perspectives, that is.

Chris: But it's up to me. Yeah. Anyway, you are not existentialism itself, you are an existential crisis. Right?

EC: Yes.

Chris: So you have a meaning.

EC: No.

Chris: I get it. It's up to me what you mean.

EC: As I said.

Chris: You did not say that. You said it was up to me how long you would stay around.

EC: Correct.

Chris: Do you ever elaborate?

EC: No.

Chris: You ever get drunk?

EC: Yes.

Chris: Really? Why?

EC: No reason.

Chris: Of course not.

[More snow falls. EC never blinks. Chris rubs his head and snow flies. He weeps for hours. He thinks about dying and about living and about his wife and children and, hopefully, about God and the universe. He thinks about the oblivion of anesthesia. He shivers and waves his hand in front of his face, as if it were under attack by winter wasps. He breathes deeply for awhile. Chris stands up, brushes the snow off of his shoulders and shoves his hands into his coat pockets.]

Chris: You know what?

EC: Hm?

Chris: Piss off.

EC: As you say. You know I will be back.

Chris: Will you? Isn't that up to me?

EC: Actually, no.

Chris: Well, piss off for now.

EC: Whatever.

[Chris sits back down on the bench, legs stretched out in front of him. He watches Existential Crisis walk away, get paler and paler, and disappear over the white horizon. The wind picks up again. He sits there, alone, as everyone must.]