Of a Poem and Presentiments

I remember writing a poem about a friend to whom I was so infinitely close and with whom I had spent then such a great majority of my time. The poem was titled “How Can We Ever Remain?” and it went, in sheer fondness of couplets, as such :

How all this will be dearly missed
When our lives shall soon consist
Of necessary chores and suited bores,
Of blinding numbers and judicial laws.

Can we ever hope to remain
As playful deviants of the sane,
To speak a language that no other
Can ever hope to properly decipher?

We know that all must come to an end;
This night, this laugh, our whimsy plan
To enact a quizzical story, a comical scene
And nose-dive into an elysian gleam.

Ever wondered how life would be
If we were droplets separated by a sea,
Never once given a chance to meet
And never once would we feel incomplete?

Remain as we are, you’d dolorously implore;
As mirthful children parading on a radiant moor.
Yet, there is no certainty that we will remain
Forever this foolish, forever the same.

How all this will be dearly missed
By the young that will soon be dismissed.

Alas, we never remained the same. We hardly speak to each other now apart from the sparse times where we are occasioned to. And when we do meet, it would always seem as if there were some mighty force compelling us to act in a decorously banal manner rather than in the redolent childish one which had before brought us so much laughter and joy. It is a wonder how everything had converged to this unfortunate present when in fact I had written the poem with a supreme confidence that we would remain always as we had been; as those foolish, mirthful children that found in each other the utmost delight, humor, entertainment, companionship and love.

I thus began to wonder whether it was by calamitous chance that we now live so separate lives or whether it simply was I who had grown into a presentiment of my own making. I do not think it impossible that presentiments may hold sway over a person’s actions. It could well be that in writing down his fears of the future, a small part of himself concedes to the inescapable materialization of those fears, and outcome was, as it were, predestined. And whensoever anything marginally resembling a fibre of the feared contingency comes into being, that small part of himself grows ever larger; and like a tumor it shall soon consume him whole, inciting through paranoia and fear, actions that he otherwise would not have performed, and that would fulfill the dastardly prophecy which he had created for himself.

So perhaps, if I had never written such a poem, we might now still be the closest of friends, the truest of companions, and perhaps, some time this week, we might lament about the lives that are to come and earnestly promise each other that we will remain forever the same.

To M.

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