With each quickly rushing past day, the end of my time here rushes at me from the future. And I'm not doing well with it, frankly. I never have learned how to say goodbye. I hold the past in my heart gripped tightly. I hold my past loves and fears as myself. They hold me.
Sometimes I do better than other times. It's usually first thing when I wake up and late at night that's the worst. It's when my guard is down, when the careful filters my intellect runs every thought and feeling through are lax.
I just can't understand what it means to say goodbye, to love a place and people so much and then move to a new place with new people and new places and people to love. It just doesn't make sense to me. And maybe it's not supposed to make sense. The passing of time will always have for me the sense of the tragic - an unfolding that we all perceive and must silently endure. But it must mean something, right? Time is what it is because it passes; we could not love or be happy or suffer without time. But time is so singularly devastating because it is inextricably bound up with loss. And loss makes even less sense than time. We have to have time but why do we have to have loss?
All that is to say that the thought of not seeing the people here that I love so dearly is unbearable.