Concerned with all problems that plagued him, a turn to the subconscious held great intention. 

“How beautiful it is to finally indulge in the great infinite?” He tired the topics of old, grew on the new and collapsed into the worn leather armchair he had dragged– against its will– through the last 22 years of living situations.

“How do you fold your mind continuously without a hint of exhaustion?” she said to him.

Without a breath between them, he aired the obvious.

“I will never be able to tell you this.”

Her playful grin immediately inverted as she grew increasingly frustrated with his riddles.

“But surely you can try,” she beckoned.

He looked at her, with all the intensity of a man setting out on a voyage with no expectancy of return, and began:

“When I ask you the color of the furthest chair in the kitchen, you’re likely to remark that the brownness of its hue is reminiscent of the bark of the old oak tree next to the flower beds. Understandably, we base this statement on a shared experience. We have witnessed, together, the bark of this old tree and can draw on this memory as a reference. But without this, and the multi-year shared experience of learning and practicing the language we share, we would lack the skills to comment on the color of the chair. What happens when we think? We create experiences. Inherently individual, intensely everchanging. So how am I to communicate the thoughts in my head, this internal nebulous of an infinitely mutable consciousness, with another being entirely separate from myself?” 

She looked up from the paper she was reading (some marketing material dropped in their mailbox with the morning news) to show she had noticed the break in flow.

“Hm?” she breathed, obviously interrupted from her own internal monologue.