  Even the most insouciant people in the world have moments of depth,  though usually there are no real witnesses. nbsp;  Once,  after a long night out with friends and people who liked to share intimate laughter with me as though we were friends,  I drove to the neighborhood park for a cigarette. nbsp;  As I settled in the familiar warmth of my solitude (
which I am so accustomed to)
nbsp;
I realized no one would ever know the true stirrings in my loins -  not the people I was with,  not the ones who know me best,  not the ones who've known me all my life.
nbsp; nbsp;
Then I saw a patch of mongo seedlings growing next to a gnarly tree and realized that at that particular moment,  they were the only witnesses to my confessions.
nbsp;
 I&
nbsp;
 was delighted.
nbsp;
 It tickled me that some hours before,  a curious&
nbsp;
kid had scattered the green seeds across the field,  hoping that the next day,  he would see little leaves sprouting from where the&
nbsp;
mung beans&
nbsp;
once were.
nbsp;
 How was he to know that some sad person had found hope in his little science project?  So much sadness comes with having no one to really talk to.
nbsp;
 There are always people around;
 we belong to a culture that thrives on company.
nbsp;
 But company is often as good as no company,  as I've witnessed in hollow conversations,  empty laughs and glazed glances.
nbsp;
 Underneath it all is&
nbsp;
a sadness that drives people like me to empty fields and vacant lots,  hoping to find refuge and solace in a cigarette,  and finding instead a patch of growing seeds.
nbsp;
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