These jarring little rips in the fabric of our memories- memories painted with the faces of past lovers and friends, cold pavement under bare feet, the firsts of all the things that unraveled before us as we spun a brief web in life. The spaces between us grow and shorten in length, and sometimes they are so far away that we can only reply those last fleeting moments. It’s hearty smiles that often calculatedly hide things just a little bit, even from ourselves. It’s in the ways that some love the old, stuffy and comforting smells of warm bookshops when you hide from the rain. Some don’t. Some hear your sounds, and know. Some hear your sounds, and don’t. Not always by whom we expect, what with our rigid internal systems to gage and assess who is friend and who is foe. And they change, moment by moment. Big love can become a quiet passing through our time. Nothing truly lingers, and nothing truly leaves either. We could sit and ponder over the maddening juxtapositions into old age, and still with our dry eyes, tired mind and frail bones, we wouldn’t know. Only these little anecdotes that come to us after pain and suffering, happiness, we must give something in return for what we receive. Whether it’s a broken heart or a dream that bore no fruit, we must return something. The few who come into our lives aren’t always supposed to be the ones who remain with us. Over-accumulation has been seeping like a liquid virus into the cracks of our society, and from it these fears like self doubt and obsession are born inside of us, cancerous in nature and quiet in their havoc-wreaking tendencies. We become deluded with the notion that we are not enough, that we must be loved more and earn more and win more and be unbeatable on all levels. And the farther we try and climb this peak-less mountain, the farther we leave behind the wisdom and ability to be inside of our selves and know that the unique , imperfect beauty of the cosmos is inside of us too.