On ageing friendships

The other night, I had a dream about a good friend of mine (though since we parted ways in our studies, our contact has become quite infrequent). I dreamt that he had somehow disappeared; some mysterious illness had consumed him whole. I was in his house then, and his mother told me that she didn’t now what it was, that illness, either. And I felt incredibly saddened by the news. The first thing I thought was about how much I actually cared. I didn’t know it. The business of the days had it very well concealed. We go along our lives so happily, among our immediate friends, and busying ourselves with our immediate tasks, that we forget, little by little, the people who once made such a difference to us. I awoke on the next morning full of relief; I still had that good friend in my company. And it just so happened that it was birthday. I wished him and asked him how he was.

To two cherished friends

It has always been a mysterious fear of mine to see the both of you fall in love. Hardly is the reason a petty one; that I wish for neither of you to find companionship, but remain with me on this plane of solitude. No, though I can be childish, I am not so spectacularly childish as that. Instead, I shall be glad for the both of you, for having found in each other the missing piece to life’s puzzle. But I shall also feel a slight sense of abandonment. This is inevitable. For then, the both of you shall share an intimacy which surpasses friendship, and that from which I must naturally be excluded. And of the joys and laughter shared in your private hut I shall have neither stake nor knowledge. Perhaps, we shall still go about our adventures, the three of us, but I don’t imagine they shall be the same as those we go on now. Now, we go as friends; then, we will go as a pair and a friend.

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.