Dylan

Sometime in the night, Saturday night, my watch died. I woke up thinking, “That’s odd, it’s not very old. I wonder what it means.” There is probably a cognitive bias for that — assuming there must be meaning in meaningless events.

Sometime in the night, Saturday night, Dylan died. Oh.

I walked in to a sophomore elective math class when I was a senior, and there I met him, staring at me from behind Prada glasses. I stared back. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “I’m too old for you anyway.”

Years later, I was living somewhere with dark hallways and I couldn’t help but feel that something ghastly was watching me, he sent me his favorite plaid shirt and a letter.

If Dylan and I had a song, it would be this. Recordare from Mozart’s Requiem. He knew Latin, and he served as my instant translator when we listened together. The best were the first few lines — Remember the reason for your life, do not cast me out on that day.

His last Facebook status was

Unrequited love is like hitting your head against a wall that isn’t there

I know what people do in this situation is try to find meaning. Again, in the meaningless. And to try apply these meaningful statements to one’s own life somehow — carpe diem, life’s too short, and all that. But I can’t right now. I’m immensely sorry that he’s gone, and if there’s any lesson I should learn, I can’t see it.

What can be said about a boy who wrote to me about his magic shirt of immortality that would turn into dragon-armor in my dreams? Just, where he went, perhaps I can follow.

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