I don't think I was in a particularly jolly frame of mind when I felt like writing this. It is hard to try and make anything of it, so I shall leave it as it stands.

---

It is a pitiful power I wield;
It creates a half-visible smirk
Every time I see him attempt to gain
The attention of those unworthy of it.

Don't believe them, I say, because not one
Will sit, like I do,
Separated by sea and time,
Clinging onto moments washed from all our lives,
Writing verses blank as their hearts.

I like parts of this. But I guess it is still too personal to be the sort of "universal writing" that I would like to move towards.

---

Yes, it is just the late night
Still, it calls out just to you
Says without a laugh,
"Forget without fear,
All these thoughts formed anew!"

See that you are still alive in me
Though I hope it needn't be said;
I could never forget,
Dear moments in time,
For my heart always rules my head.

I don't care what contradictions
My thoughts and rhymes entail
Wretched though they may be,
All I need, my friend,
Is to see you back again.

Alas, I do not have handy the piece that inspired this response. Not that I would have shared it anyway.

---

Maybe I'm just getting jealous, is that it? I don't remember being so witty, so knowledgeable, so mired in irony and whimsy at your age, when the opportunities for biting satire were so ripe. I suppose it's customary for me to start talking about how strange it is that I should be beginning a "When I was your age" rant, but I actually don't think it strange in the least; I almost welcome it! A sign of maturity, no doubt - certainly miles above the cynicism that passes for realism these days, eh?

This didn't come out of the blue, you know; I suppose it has been building up slowly with the smallest of things, but it finally struck me when you mentioned the K________ in those detached, amusing, and I think ultimately insincere terms. It is obvious enough that an event of such ostentation would leave a deep impression in my mind, but I am struggling to think of any reason why I should feel particularly stung by your comments. After all, I only participated the one time, and uncermoniously exited, but not before saving myself from a humiliating last place, well before my time was due (it was all rigged, of course).

But what were those days? For starters, moments when he was always present, scene to some of our greatest fights, including the one that nearly ended our friendship altogether. But it was also that place that I remember missing when I first left, those two days spent as a member of the audience, hoping that one day I too would be part of the main event with people cheering everytime I got a question right.

Maybe it's all about him, maybe I think that by mocking the event, you are mocking one of his many achievements, and one of my strongest memories. You don't have to tell me you don't mean it, of course. I know you don't mean to come across any particular way, so don't be taken too aback by all this. Lord knows I've been guilty of offhand comments in my time, and I've brushed off all attempts to correct these comments as being overly serious. And heck, you don't even know the man - I would be impressed indeed if you showed the tact to avoid insulting some fantastical friend of an anonymous reader.

Like I said, I'm probably just jealous that it took me so long to gain the ability to view certain things with a requisite level of irony, but maybe I'm more than a little upset that you thought this required anything more than nostalgia. But you know, I also have little doubt that, despite how you choose to gently mock it now, there will be a day in the not too distant future when it will come back to you equally gently, without saying a word, but almostly tacitly asking you whether you believe your head or your heart.

Or darn it all, maybe I am just getting old.

Maybe it's true

Maybe it's true
Maybe the years didn't really pass by
And I never aged, never outgrew
Your perennial presence, telling us
The trivial,
The magical.

I can think of worse fates
Than having to wake up again,
Put on that comforting shade of green,
Sit with complete attention,
And not wonder where time goes.

It was many, many years later, when all that was left of what he inherited from his father was his baldness. On a cold winter afternoon, he sat stationary, soaking up the heat, as he sipped the chrysanthemum tea to help stir his senses. It took him back to those days in the house by the open field, with the workers on the porch just like he always imagined. He was served tea there once, and saw a book on Zen sitting peacefully next to the couch. He remembered opening it and seeing those Tibetan characters, wondering if somehow the thoughts would transcend the barrier of language and help him reach enlightenment. After a minute, he started to feel dizzy from the patterns that seemed to be forming from the letters, and placed the book back down.

He never knew why he went to the cupboard and opened that cardboard box where he had carefully placed all that had ever passed through in his life. He looked at the photo and letter that signalled a farewell that at the time he had welcomed, now faded with the years and the places he had been since. He sighed and was glad that he kept these things to remember the times, and at that moment, he knew that any regret was but an illusion his mind had created.

Dear cousin
When you were young
And I was not old
When the history I learned
Was the only history I knew
Those are the times
That seem most real.