It dawned on me that a fair amount of the things I do, I do to keep myself suspended on a thin thread, to keep from falling and from disappearing beneath the skin.

As we grow older, we become reliant on the dependability of routine and the comfort in the knowledge that we can return to some things, places, people, in a reality as fluid as ours.

Like a warm cup of tea before bedtime,
a cigarette for the walk home,
the smell that lingers in the bedsheets at home,
the familiar tugging of heartstrings each time that scene plays
or that specific verse sang in low baritones.
It is ordering the same meal in the same restaurants;
even though you promised yourself at the last visit to try something new,
or simply the sound of your best friend's voice after a trying day.

Loss remains my greatest fear. Even after the temperature of the relationship has gone cold, the task of taking an eraser to memory and a swift detaching of emotion is not for me something one can just decide to do.

Because ultimately, starting fresh means something else is ending stale.