The plants never join our discussion . . .

Most Saturday nights this year, I’ve found myself at home in a classroom, ringed with printed quotes, a typewriter, and many potted plants.
Philosophy Club is held in a classroom in the corner of the World Language wing, far from the busy commitments of the rest fo the school.  I've been staying late this year, until 10:15, just before my check-in (I prefect a Second Form dorm so our check-ins are at 10:30 on Saturdays). We try to cover a range of topics, bouncing between theory (such as if logic can exist in a solely physical world) and application (such as a reason giving force—i.e. a reason to do good or have similar goals).

One night, the three other club heads and I spent about twenty minutes trying to explain nihilism vs. existentialism vs. some other reason-giving forces, but with around twenty members, it was difficult to get through too much material before we were sidetracked by various questions. It was boisterous and there was a small ball being tossed around as well (hitting my friend squarely in the eye while he described utilitarianism).

We split into four groups, when the real conversation began. Every crevice of that room was filled, and people spilled into the hallway.

These discussions are formed in little fluid pockets, so people move between groups easily.  At one point another night, I was speaking about dualism with a Fourth Former who had never questioned the existence of a physical world before. It was funny because this is my favorite part of philosophy, and we were having this really engaging conversation, but she’d never thought about this before. It made our dialogue refreshing with her new perspective. I tried to explain how the existence of a nonphysical world is easier to confirm and prove, but she wasn't going to believe it without proof, so we went into some depth.

After years of infrequent meetings, these Saturday nights remind me of the Philosophy Club meetings from Lower School. Back then, the 7-8 p.m. Philosophy Club meeting felt endlessly late to my eighth-grade self.
Even so, my best friend and I burst out laughing at Statement 2.02 in this esoteric book: “Objects are simple.”  It seemed so innocuous, harkening back to Democritus’s claim of a smallest, indivisible particle—the atomos.  Our club head, Phoebe, continued describing her beloved Tractatus, while my friend and I smiled to each other.
This year our smiles are hurried to each other as we’re both drawn to several different conversations amidst this sea of philosophy.