Yesterday, I went to a funeral to celebrate the death of everything I know.
We stood stiffly shoulder to shoulder in standard issue uniforms around the burning pyre as they handed us receipts—proof that we had passed through town and stayed here for a while, and a one-way ticket out.
No one knew what to say.
The silence spread through empty rooms and barren halls where ghosts still dance on tabletops to the echoes of our soundtrack, the musical story of our time together punctuated with laughter and end-stopped with a teardrop.
After an hour or two, the fire began to dwindle, but still we stood staring until the last spark died and a cold breeze blew the ashes into the sea, taking with it everything but our memories.
So we packed away our uniforms and became ourselves once again, but nothing was quite the same, and they gently pushed us out and firmly closed the door.
Empty and uncertain, we looked at each other and shrugged, not knowing where to go next.
One by one we fell away without a word—no one dared to say “goodbye” because “goodbye” implies “forever.”
Until, we remembered the permanence of impermanence, and began again.