He Did Not Know
He did not know – at 21, most don’t – so he let it be. Seasons? What are they anyway? A cold snap; winter approaches. The old know, but the young – those curious naysayers – persisting in rebellion, in experimentation, in evolving, in defying their fault-ridden mentors. He did not know that this bronzing sun would wane. He was the moment and he did not expect the change. And he was in no way prepared for illness.
He did not know that thirty years on, that itch in his lungs would still be coughing up advice.
Somewhere near Canberra. Some intersection – some traveller’s decision-point. It was dark, it was cold, it was real, it was wonderful. The damage began. Why had he sent the tent home? He had not had to use it for some time. So why carry it? Like any error of judgement, it made sense. He had not yet made sense of mistakes.
He was decades away from enjoying them.
Harry is a recovering satirist, part-time philosopher, and full-time tinkerer of tags. He once wrote a poem about recursion that never ended, and a JavaScript confession that crashed three browsers. His archive spans two decades of metaphysical mischief, theological punchlines, and nostalgic detours. He believes in the transformative power of satire, the elegance of well-placed meta tags, and the occasional necessity of poetic nonsense.
This piece is a poignant reflection on youth, hindsight, and the slow dawning of wisdom. It’s lyrical, melancholic, and quietly profound — a meditation on the unknowingness of early adulthood and the long echo of choices made.