Echoes of the mind

The content of conversation is not directly proportional to the amount of words spoken.
Tell that to the man who loves the sound of his own voice or the one who redirects social intercourse back to himself despite the fact the once back there he really has no thing to say.
It is often the way of men in groups to out do the each others stories. As tiresome at it can be one upmanship is an art that actually requires the telling of a story. At best from an invisible observation post beyond the tunnel vision of the particants, such exchanges are as entertaining for the body language, the rearing and locking of horns, the unbridled urges to push further up the mountain no matter how far from the truth we've climbed, as they are for the hyperbole they unleash.
I've never been good at holding my own in the midst of practised men, better a listener. Sure when the right questions are asked, passions inflamed or the mood suits then this vaguely-familiar-personality within, emerges to mine some hazy memory, at least one soliquoy, careful never to hold the floor too long or spread himself thin lest his presence diminish into the spluttering, non linear communique that normally blurts from this beast framed as man.
I increasingly find myself in the position of having people talk at me. This I am equipped to withstand. The flip is that when it comes time for me to entertain, to play the charming host or the pivotal axis in the meeting of minds I find fewer and fewer valid or interesting points of departure on which to launch. Scratching around on the parched cracked desert basin of mind -in my haste for something nourishing I dig past my thoughts- deeper to some bottomless neverland, it's like climbing through a black hole, staring out at a starless infinite pitch, aware only of the possiblities yet never so much as managing to catch on to the rare burning meteor that sidles past within arms length.
The buddha said something about reaching enlightenment and finding nothing there. This might be more relevant to men than the promise of some great future where angels mix with bearded harp players dancing on the sunrays that break above the clouds. Most, I guess, will never know until it's too late despite the fact that their daily lives are filled with such emptiness.
The all consuming urgency to fill the gaps between the lines and crowd the spaces overides the option of confronting the wide open terrain. Cos if you ever make it out there, there is no guarantee you'll ever make it back.