The one who got away, is the one forgotten. His surroundings remain, from which one could pertain what was his name. But no more no less. Only the remnants of his outline signify what could have been. Perhaps a song was written, with words of laurel about that certain piece of work. A song still chanted by young children, which has lost all meaning, yet retains its place due to cultural significance, and right passage through generations. The one who got away and made a name for himself.
He still haunts me in my dreams, with strong imagery, which last only till the end of the dream. Its as if the absence of the one who got away is the thing that has gained substance, and is trying to remind me of this vapid non-existence. Maybe I do remember, somewhere deep down among the lines dividing the white and gray matter in my brain. Maybe it resembles some other memory now, mixed up with making a cup of tea. Maybe thats why whenever i’m making a cup of tea, it suddenly hits me like it was happening in this instant, that i’ve forgotten something of immense value, and some tears come out in commensuration of that forgotten object of value.
Or maybe it is right there in the periphery of my vision, just waiting to come into focus, just my eyes dont go there, the forgotten isles of retina where we shared our views. The one that got away, the one that packed its bags and just left. No note, no memento to remember him by. Maybe he shares the same forgetfulness as me, and we joined together in harmony, sharing that void which continues to signify, the one that got away.
