Inevitably, being home brings about a certain amount of sadness. Especially when you find yourself driving to old haunts whilst scolding yourself for being quite so sentimental.
But how is this sentimentality meant to cope when confronted by drawers and drawers of (old) poems, letters, photographs, which have to be cleared out to make room for the present? Oh my.
So I’ve taken a little break from reading through so many words to share this little bit of angst, because I am simultaneously embarassed by and proud of my emotionally charged, hopeful, idealistic 6-years-ago-me.
from a letter never sent:
I suppose this is how it always happens. The idea of an ending comes before the ending, so the quickness, the sharp sound of shutting does not leave us impoverished and unable. To what. To go on I suppose..
The reasons are the secrets, and they come just before winter, always at this time of the year. I have buried them and from them terrible forms of myself have grown, root-like, confused by my own suspicion, because I suspect everything I have known – the ends of words I wasn’t to hear, the fiction surrounding us, shooting off everywhere, returning. But I did hear, and you do not know, and I saw gestures not meant for me and the history of a love come and gone before me, but never really gone, never really mine, until the idea of without creeps in, and you understand that what seemed impossible is now not only conceivable. It is logical.’
It’s nice to revisit (carefully) things like this, but in a manner that is kind and forgiving. Because I know it’s going to be okay, one day. I know that it gets better, that things work out, that people survive. And mostly, that nothing is ever lost.