Romante si nostalgie

It was a chance encounter. I like to tell myself that I stumbled upon him, but the fact of the matter is that he was there waiting for me. Waiting for my eager fingers and eyes. Waiting for my shallow cover to crack. Waiting for my curiosity to peek under his own cover. I fell in love years ago with a simple string of words. With the nostalgia. With the biting replies. With the sarcasm. And then I forgot. I came back to him on lonely Friday nights. Like the ungrateful lovers he often talks about. Only there to satisfy a moment's itch. Only remembering because of a chance encounter of the eyes. He probably deserves more. More than a dusty shelf in a forgotten library. I probably deserve more than this person I'm becoming. I should probably dig deeper than the same two pages that I almost know by heart by now. The books you read are a reflection of who you are. But who am I if I barely ever read anymore? Maybe it's time I give Minulescu a thorough read. He deserves it. And so do I.

Is this it?

Life is a continual flux. Change. Transformation. A recipe that constantly recreates itself with new components. New atoms, new molecules, new chemicals, new cells, new hair, new clothes, new songs, new places, new people. The only constant is the pattern. And to be part of the mechanism means to accept the rules of the game of transformations. To accept that some things have to be left behind. Why is it that such an integral part of nature is so difficult for us puny humans? Sure, we don't care if we lose an atom or two along the way. We never knew them on a personal level anyway. But when it comes to people and places, the story is entirely different. Saying goodbye never feels quite right. Some don't say it at all. Sometimes, it is simply implied in the structure of the relationship. People grow apart. Letters become brief. Words grow cold. It is the simple natural progression of two lives moving in opposite directions. And as we gain years, we accumulate more and more of these letters written in a hurry before getting back to our everyday life. Letters that feel like a pause in time. And we feel guilty. For not taking the time. For not writing more often. For not putting in more effort to keep this alive. It becomes a chain that we carry around our heart. As we gain years, the chain becomes longer as we leave more and more people behind. Is this what life is about? A growing progression of relationships plugged in to machinery that keeps them artificially alive? Guilt and regrets that weigh heavier by the years? Or maybe I'm holding on when I should just let go?