I miss a lot of people. But new ones come along.

Like an omission of self, half of literature is the human condition grappling with impermanence. One of the few guarantees, yet we still can’t quite get our heads round it. It’s funny how things fade, how connections wane, associations falter. Rhyme or reason are redundant in this faux pas of ancestral misery, I ask you to explain knowing full well the answer is as inscrutable as the fleeting moments we’re hanging between. And it’s funny how people you thought you would hold forever become nothing more than footnotes. All those I’ve ever loved rattle around my skeleton, like some ramshackled house, haunted by the remnants of lovers and irretrievable friends. They twist my heartstrings around their fingers, snare my lungs until they’re empty of air, until I’m doubled over in the street over the distance of my childhood best friend’s kitchen, how I will never sit at that table again, how I am supposed to be ok with this, how I am supposed to suppress the urge to scream and claw my way back. 

I miss a lot of people. But new ones come along. They patch up old wounds, leave you bleeding in new places - it’s a learning curve. Emerging from overcrowded underground platforms, sunshine clad parks, long, drunken lines for the bathroom. And they become this walking metaphor; a reminder of why we let go of rotten corpses - something to hold. And you’re beginning to understand that permanence is not the greatest thing we can achieve in this life, in fact maybe it is irrelevant (it’s easier to believe this on days like today, when the it’s not all so heavy). Even with all the money in the world, all the success and soirees, all you really have are moments, and the whole point of those is that they don’t last forever. Impermanence is your only guarantee - I don’t think that will stop us writing about it though.