How unceremoniously a year passes. How monuments of our lives marked by the comings and goings of others, the departures and settlements of ourselves, become faint whispers carried away in the comings and goings of each day. In so many ways you think: “I should have gotten used to this by now”. I should be comfortable with this feeling by now. And in so many ways you think, “I’m too used to this now.” I am too ok with this feeling now.

How do we reconcile the passage of time: The steady augmentation of reality into memory into “what was his name?” A gaping pause because you feel badly for forgetting, incredulous that you could! But you did. We all do: forget a little, soften, harden and fixate on truths that never happened, become complacent with the terrible things that did. Pet lovely people and count your lovers on your finger tips (forgetting to include yourself) who remind you to stay, to go, to be true. 

I’ve stopped looking forward because there’s already so much right here in front of us. An overwhelming swell in a song so boring and obvious and perfect; it could be no other way. If I can just get through one more day, just today. And then the year passes: marked with scattered monuments.