Shuttered storefronts, a revolving door of people and talking phases, trading in an old car after a decade of use, loss.
I read a quote somewhere recently that over time and especially as you get into your thirties and beyond, the concept of loss will become all too familiar as the life you've known and have become accustomed to starts to transform, and if you don't fill your life up with new people and experiences, it would be reminiscent of a slow but determinate deterioration. Your social circles become smaller, your childhood memories and old stomping grounds become replaced by the new and unfamiliar, your parents will pass.
Nothing makes this feeling more visceral than returning home. Going back always feels like peering into a time capsule trapped in a magic 8-ball, and last weekend I was back for the first time in over a month. The buses on my usual route are now the new hybrid ones, which are twice the length of the old ones. The streets look relatively the same but feel different. A welcome relief since every time I return it feels there's always a new "something", whether it be a restaurant or condo building. I guess this time it's the bus.
Playing Geoguessr on my phone on the way back, I was placed in front of my local mall, the one that I used to go to every month with my mom and brother growing up. Imagine my complete bewilderment; of all the places in the world that could be shown to me, and at any time and place I could be playing Geoguessr, it had to be this. The alignment of these events seemed like a divine statement. I clicked through all the roads leading back to my parents' house; The copyright was from June 2025, but still it feels like a lifetime ago then. I went back to look at my house on street view in the years past, preserved a handful of times going back to 2007. How things have changed despite remarkably looking relatively the same.
The only things aren't new and unfamiliar are falling into disrepair. My parents and the house are no exception, except this time my brother is gone. Fragments of the past are fading with each visit. Next time it will be the car, as they are trading it in after a decade of use. The car we bought after totalling the old one that icy winter 5 hours north of home, the one we brought the cat home in, the one that drove us to and from my graduation ceremony.
In my room, I found a letter from my 17-year-old self written for a creative writing class. It was filled with ambition and hope for what I envisioned my life to look like as a full-fledged adult. Among the top of the list was to visit Las Vegas (which has lost all its appeal to me in this day and age), Madrid, Tierra del Fuego, Mallorca, London. One out of five isn't bad I suppose. There was also a list of contacts of all the friends I sat with in that class - their phone numbers stayed the same, but I no longer talk to any of them.
What is the bigger point all of this is trying to tell me? That the earth is continuously moving while I'm standing still? I'm not sure to be honest, but I'm sure when it all clicks in my head it'll take the initiative to do that in the middle of a meeting or something important. In the meantime, I'll go toy with some guitar pedals and finish my read list, as to not have to think about it too deeply.
