A Duel of wits

On those cold nights, he would often tell her stories. Stories of how he imagines it ends for  him. She used to protest in outrage at the morbidity of his imaginations. And yet he would insist on her listening to the descriptions of a long torturous fall of a face of a cliff. They would go on arguing till the wee hours of the night. One advocating how death has to be assimilated, the other fighting for the myriad reasons to live. It was a duel of wits which held them in conversation for ever. For nobody had challenged the other in a war of words quite so much like. Each of them loved debate furiously and they looked for a worthy opponent in every plain of existence. Someone who could rise up to the occasion and defend the case well. And unfortunately in this instance, the words had locked and matched. Neither had learned to concede well but the banter had won. What if arguments, opinions had ceased existing in modern world? How would you learn to love without the incessant sparring of razor sharp wit? So as the days went on, so did the blurriness of the lines between morbidity and zest for life. I suppose death did assimilate in a fiercely indomitable spirit. That's what debate does. It teaches, elevates but leaves traces of still, immovable ideas on paper.