Some knew some better than others. Others hovered in the periphery; from time to time, they stepped in and made themselves part of the conversation. Some looked more confortable than the others. Some precluded themselves with the seats they chose or where they stood. Every face a story on it, every gesture a reasoning.

Many sentences that were spoken trailed; sometimes it was because of the music the band was dishing out; a surprisingly strong, raucous set. It was definitely not quite their usual playlist.

In the gathering that took place, I watched. In the midst of the merry-making, there were looks and postures which betrayed the levels of comfort and familarity between the individuals. And in the silence reigned by the loud music from the band, volumes were spoken.

Over round after round, the reasoning and philosophizing turned to noise. As did the teasing and jibing; in the tight confines of the watering hole and the enforced proximity of strangers all around me, bodies pressed close. Snatches of momentary intimacy.

Yet it felt like a big empty to me. There were things I realized that night, in one of the late nights too many.

What was the purpose, the point? In each and every of the gatherings that would drag on late into the night, how much of the flitting conversations could one take home?

Was it not all but a sensory experience, a collision of sight, sound and touch not meant to be remembered? An experience – in our desire to wind down and leave behind our other lives of chore and due – constantly revisited, no matter how unfulfilling it might be in the morning after.

Was it something we sought in the excesses? Both conversations and consciousness drowned by the music, the cigarettes and the alcohol, hallmarks of nightlife consumed too quickly and too fervently in the span of mere hours.

Gratifying in the moment.

But empty.