cygnoir.net

These mornings are so foggy in the Sunset. Foghorns remind me of my beloved. I wrote a poem about an evening of ours, years ago, set to the soundtrack of a foghorn. Ever since then, I cannot hear a foghorn without thinking of him. I realize now how apt the symbolism is.

This Saturday will be the fifth anniversary of the day I kissed him goodbye on the eve of his move to Scotland.  Coincidentally, it was my half-birthday, so I never forgot the date. I tried. I tried to forget so much, but I kept hearing foghorns.

It is gray inside the building today, which reminds me of December, which in turn reminds me of last December and my last job. Our big project was just about to launch. The launch had been pushed back, and the new launch date conflicted with my holiday vacation.  The team changed the launch date again so I could be present.

I felt very lucky to be so cherished.  I also felt overwhelmed and disenchanted and other things.

To think that I have not once visited a website I used to visit hundreds of times a week.

In the moment, we tend to think that our little importances, good or bad, will extend forward indefinitely. But the moment after this one, and this one, and this one, always proves that wrong.

I miss certain aspects of every remembered moment of my life, be it perspective, innocence, determination, or merely the me-ness in that moment that no longer exists, no longer can exist, the air in a bubble popped.