I met a woman in the forest. We saw each other a few times, but made no promises, nor plans. She never told me what she wanted from me, and I didn’t ask. She would come with her arms full of twigs and leaves, while I carried a tree trunk, heavy, cut with patience. We met in the same place every time, among the tall trees.
Once, she asked what I hated most in people. I told her: their dichotomic gaze. She looked at me, puzzled. I explained it’s the way people see only black or white, never realizing that the meaning of life lies in between. She seemed to understand, then said:
“When you speak like that, I feel like you’re talking above me.”
We kept meeting for a while. She complained that we saw each other too rarely, but she never said what she actually wanted. One day she told me:
“I like that you’re serious, but I feel you’re not as involved as I am. When I see the other person isn’t as invested, I start losing interest.”
I stayed silent. I kept thinking: Why are you telling me this? To make me feel guilty? To provoke me? Or do you just hate the kind of silence where nothing happens?
“How does your involvement look, then?” I asked.
“See? I gather twigs every day, and you spend a whole week cutting down one tree.”
“Yes,” I said, “but you can’t build a house out of twigs.”
“Oh, sure you can. If you have strong enough glue.”
“Maybe. Until the first storm.”
She frowned.
“Do you ever wonder if your expectations are reasonable?”
“I don’t want to be reasonable,” I said. “But that doesn’t make me absurd.”
She laughed mockingly.
“But the opposite of reasonable is absurd.”
She said it smiling, as if she’d just won a debate. I looked at her for a moment, with a trace of pity.
“That’s the perfect example of dichotomic thinking: unable to see the shades between reasonable and absurd. There’s nothing absurd about wanting a house that doesn’t collapse.”
“See? That’s exactly why I say you’re complicated. You want too much.”
I showed her the tree trunk I had cut.
“Look, I want to build a wooden house from this, something that lasts. You bring sticks, twigs, straw, and leaves. Maybe it’s easier, but it won’t hold.”
“You’re insulting me. That’s my contribution. I can’t cut trees.”
“I never asked you to. I only asked you to understand why I do it.”
She turned away.
“Nothing ever satisfies you.”
I looked around. The wind had started to rise, carrying with it the smell of winter and silence.
We parted there. She walked away with her leaves, laying them one over another. Maybe she’s a good woman, a reasonable one, as she says. But I don’t want to be reasonable that way. So I went back to my unfinished house. It isn’t much yet, but it stands.
Note: This allegory was born from a real conversation. Someone once sent me a screenshot from a dictionary, showing that “reasonable” is the opposite of “absurd”, trying to correct me, or perhaps to win a point that didn’t need winning. I recall feeling consternated by the inability to see what lies between opposites. People who only see contradictions never see complexity. And where complexity is invisible, humanity becomes incomprehensible.
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