It’s a luxury to bask in his presence and to observe him without saying anything. He doubts (or pretends to doubt) everything. He is like a child still deliberating whether to eat the marshmallow now or wait for the tester to return. It seems that this is where his hope comes from, that all his questioning will coalesce into a philosophy of life that will transform itself into a muscle memory of instinct.
I glance at him, this time staring him straight in the eyes. And in those beady eyes, I can almost see what’s going through his head: streams of logical chains, words, contradicting belief systems, ideas. I hope all those things will form into something concrete, something that can contribute to his self-transcendence.