In college, I remembered him as the kind of student that reputations of grand universities are built on: top of his class, numerous prestigious awards adorning his walls, the pride of his professors. It was as if the world caressed his skin, giggling and giddy with a childlike excitement. Now, twenty-five years later, he’s a footnote, the one who couldn't quite live up to the family legend. 

I suppose I'm sharing this with you because, as the saying goes, “When you speak of the stars, remember to tell of the black. It’s only together that they make the beauty of night.”

As I sit here in the dim light of the evening, the years play like a sepia film in my mind. Usually, my emotions are more stable than most, because they sit on the side of neutrality. Most of the time, happiness is “content”, and sadness is “melancholy.” Because these aren’t extremes, I feel a dull ache in my chest, never pervasive but always there. Surrounded by the bunk beds of cheap pine with their rough canvas mattresses jammed end to end in the drafty room, I was taken back to my college days. Without the beds it would seem quite cavernous, perhaps with its stone floor and corniced ceiling it might even seem quite grand, but like this it was reminiscent of the economy section of some clapped out train carriage. Through the grimy window onto the gray bedding and the dusty floor, shone a dim light. The room is silent now, filled only with the echoes of memories. It was all a reminder of him. The shelves that once held medals of honor now sag under the weight of obscurity. I found myself picturing the old photographs we had on these walls, frozen moments of success. The man in those pictures, with his bright eyes and infectious smile, feels like a stranger to me now. 

His name was synonymous with “The great prince”: Aahil. Every night, he would weave words of silk, metaphorical but of course, truthful. Cross-legged on the worn rug, his eyes were glued to the golden framed oil paintings on his side of the dorm. The flowing mosaic of greens and blues could be so many things, perhaps like a fading dream if that’s what you want it to be. For him, it was a fish in cool waters, swimming freely in its own salty utopia. By the end of the night, however, his gaze always settled on his favorite painting, a ship sailing into the sunset, its sails billowing in the wind. Amidst the bonny waves, toward a sun between rise and set, the ship had a gentle drunken swagger. The painting brought about a destitute lull, the anesthesia for our sea monster fears. He leaned in closer, painting vivid pictures of the ancestral wealth and success. He spoke of grand estates nestled in the rolling hills of the countryside. He recounted tales of ancestors who had been pioneers in their fields. There was the renowned politician who had shaped the course of nations, the celebrated artist whose paintings had captured the imagination of the world, and the revered philanthropist whose generosity had touched countless lives. His favorite story though, were the dreams clinging onto the ship. 

As the ship sailed into the golden haze of sunset, it had a naive drunken confidence to it. The dreams, he'd say, were the cargo of the ship. Each one carefully packed and labeled destined for distant shores where they would blossom into reality. Even in the storms, the tightly wound cello-tape and imprinted destination never swayed. 

As the years ticked by, I noticed the once crisp sails were now tattered and worn. The cargo was still safe and sound. Slowly, I give up pieces of skin that made me myself, Aahil, to form the protective tarp against the rain. Each strip of flesh felt like I should have gotten closer.

As I write this, I still cling on like a sailor clinging to driftwood in a tempest, seeking refuge from the raging seas. I realize something I wish I had earlier. It wasn't the dreams I lost, it was the inability to let go. I was stuck in this sea of if-only, always chasing. Hidden behind the romanticism, I realized the North Star provided direction, but never a guarantee of destination. Its position in the heavens remains fixed, unchanging, yet our paths diverge, often leading us far from the course we once charted. Falling is a kind of flying when you learn how to stick the landing. If only I knew how to do that.