As I talk to a man of tough words
across the two centuries standing between us,
I try to recall the youngster who has grown
into myself over the past three decades.

I wish I could have told him that there was nothing
inherently wrong with being the protagonist
in his own drama, even if it’s not particularly well staged
and the audience is composed solely of critics.

But in truth, I doubt I would be able to say anything
that he wouldn’t have figured out himself eventually.
After all, I may be more well-read, but I’m still just as clueless,
only disillusioned—though that comes with time.