Some people seem to have an extraordinary knack for saying goodbye. They’re the type of people that are always leaving some place or someone for something new and better; the type of people that believe that in letting go, they are allowing themselves and others room to grow; the type of people that see every mooring as an interlude in their journey towards finer ports.
Personally, I like to bind myself to things. I don't think the privilege of independence is worth the loneliness of not belonging to the things you love, or having them belong to you. And despite my failed experiences, I continue to hope against hope that the next time I tie myself down, I won't ever need to weigh anchors again.
I can't reconcile myself to the idea that for some people the grass can really be greener elsewhere. I love my grass. It's pallid strands rise as a silent and sure reminder that I have seen it blossom and flourish and wilt before, and as usual, I will see it's verdure restored and love it all the more for having witnessed it overcome its paleness.
I've moved around enough to learn that once betrayed, a left thing will not wait to change. It will not receive you as congenially and welcomingly as it did before you left it. Upon returning you'll find every familiar nook and cranny will be tainted by the time spent apart. The foreshadowing possibility of a new departure will turn even the sweetest moments passively hostile. I've always believed left things are petty like that: they don't forgive, they don't forget. Their change is their ultimate revenge, and the proof that it takes two to people to tango and also, to destroy the things that are home to us: the leaving and the left.
Goodbyes are meant for better and bigger people than I. People who think leaving is part of a grander scheme and not the small death of something we were; people who see beginnings where I can only see a merciless end; people who think returning is an option, departures are not permanent and pauses are different from stops.
Leave, bien sur, it's your right as it is everyone else's. People hurt, places are outgrown, circumstances change and the choice is always there to hope or to quit. But if we ever run into each other, if we ever get to tame each other like the Little Prince and his beloved fox, please know this:
My life, like yours, will go on whether you stay or you leave, without taking breaks even if you want to pause to catch your breath, without the possibility of resuming itself exactly where you left off. Leaving is a luxury that can only be afforded by those who can manage loss. That is not who I am. I don't care for losing or for being lost. I want to stay. And I want you to stay. I don’t think I will forget or forgive you if you leave. I will not see the good in goodbye.