my anarchist friend

"I am an anarchist," he declared. He kept talking about his investment in non-fiction. He was going through a phase, and he felt things were better related to through real life experiences. "We have so much to share that has actually been felt and experienced." He was so loud when he spoke, and he kept talking as if he were the only one at the table, a table of listeners silently disagreeing. I think we only disagreed because he spoke with to much venom to not question his conviction. He kept insisting it made no sense to invest in a world that does not exist, and suddenly a wave of beautiful fictional metaphors filled my head, and I had to say it out loud, "I disagree." I wondered why I get riled up when someone seems to sincere for their own good, feelings becoming facts, there own fiction becoming non-fiction. Perhaps, I had already nodded my head to many times that day, nodding in my pursuit of feigned interest. We have to hear, listen, and then respond, but our little improve selves are out there dishing out spoonfuls of I Know Everything flavored ice cream. False, we do not not know everything,  we pretend we do, and the strength in our voice convinces our minds that is how we really feel about things. I do have one question, what would non-fiction do without fiction? Non-fiction would be fiction because there would be no need for non, and I feel satisfied being able to at least disprove his claim verbally, nonsensically. One thing is for certain though, I am excited to claim him, "Hey this is Mat, my anarchist friend." I like that idea for now.