I have no time to do anything!
My free time consists of making moral decisions, each set in a penumbra of brown-grey. And each decision, whether good for one or good for the other, leaves a piece of me behind, cast off by my very self into a paper box without the legs to follow after, in the hopes that the pieces of me that remain grow back, and grow better.
I’m uncertain as to which hurts more:
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
— Elizabeth Bishop
It’s been plenty of years.
I still miss this at times.