Erasure

Myriad are the memories that torture tired minds. Happiness always like a fast decaying fruit, attracting flies full of sick sorrow.

A perennially growing sense of loss can be felt as the years flash past, putrefying what was once ripe. A creeping fog always moving in, erasing the landscapes of our lives.

Yesterday I received news an old friend died; a reminder of life's precariousness. I haven't seen or spoken to him in years - regretfully so, given the circumstances - and I won't be able to see or speak to him again, ever. Old memories stick to my mind, saccharine and sweet, attracting ants. High school wouldn't have been the same without him, nor would the mischief or the mayhem. Or I. 

But growing old is not solely about loss. It is about learning and the accumulation of experience. When done well, there is an unveiling of illusion. Decades are spent building elaborately decorated houses of cards upon which fortunes are built and futures are told, only finally freeing ourselves from the vicissitudes of the clubs and diamonds - the hearts and spades - by letting it all fall down. 

What remains is not you or I, but what we mean to those we hold closest.

He will be missed.