There once was a man with melancholy. A magician, in fact. A failed magician, in many respects, but a magician, nonetheless.
This sad magician sat, every day, with quill in hand at a writing desk, every day convinced that if he were to write down the perfect words, set in the exact order, it’d create a sort of magic rune which could cure him of the chronic anhedonia which plagued him.
At times, he got close. The incantation he set to paper was maybe a word off, when he read it aloud. So he’d tinker with the syntax and diction for a couple weeks, swapping the order of a couple words here; substituting a synonym there.
And those near misses sustained him, staving away his melancholy for a little while.
But because the respite was short-lived, he threw out the would-be healing spells and started fresh, hoping to one day cure his ailment.
On certain days, he’d leave his writing desk, exploring the world outside the four-walls of his study.
For what if the incantation involved words I haven’t yet learned? he wondered. Signifiers for objects I may not yet know exist?
And the magician aged and his hidebound journals piled up, in the pursuit of the perfect words, set in perfect order.
And you’ve probably guessed, Dear Reader, that this magician is most every poet; that the magician is the writer scrawling on the other end of the page you’re now reading.
This poem, or whatever you call it, is, itself, an attempt at that magic rune.