For it to get easier.
If there was one thing I had to choose, one modicum of difference in my life, the vast, infinitesimal, wonderful-horrible amalgamation of moments and instances and everythings and nothings that is my life, it would be for it to get easier. Losing them.
But for it to be easier would cost it its meaning. And I know that. I know that more than anyone. Anything. Meaning is what keeps us suspended in space and surrounded by hope and functioning beyond the impossibilities, beyond the overwhelming sensation of, "That's enough, then." And, "No more. Please no more." For it to be easier would mean severing myself from them. It would mean being alone. Truly alone. More alone than I am, have always been since. The sort of alone that's so painfully different from being the last of my kind. The sort of alone that decays you, undoes you. Becomes you. Until nothing of value is left. Until life has no meaning.
For it to get easier. Yes. It would be nice, not to feel each loss so heavily on my mind, my chest, breaking my hearts into pieces every day and not day and each moment and not moment reminding me, oh, reminding me of what I've lost. Everything I've lost. Everyone. Everything.
Aimless. Every step I take past them, continuing on, moving on, separating myself as much as I have to, as little as that is. It's aimless. I'm aimless. A lord of time and space with nowhere to go. But occasionally. Yes… Yes, occasionally, I have someone to go to. Occasionally, I have someone to come with me. And occasionally, very, very occasionally, I have someone who stays with me. For a time.
And that makes it worth it.
It does, though. Even if it doesn't get easier. It really does… make it worth it. Because they all leave, in one facet or another they leave me, and that part never changes, but… Time is endless. Well, mostly endless. As endless as a wibbley wobbley ball of stuff can be, and sometimes it can be very, very endless. And in that endlessness, there's an instance. Occasionally. That stands out above the rest and makes itself known, and sticks out like a beacon of light in the darkness of infinite space, important and distinctly unique and very much not endless. And so, so much more brilliant for it.
It's because it doesn't last that it never gets easier, forming these bonds that I know will be broken, but forming them anyway, every time, accepting that I will continue going while they, every last one of them, will stay suspended in this terribly brief but wonderfully imperfect and surprisingly chaotic but enviably, amazingly beautiful window of time. It's because it doesn't last that it never gets easier.
And it's because it doesn't last that makes it worth every minute. Every second. Every nanosecond of borrowed time that I give them, because they deserve it. Every single one of them deserves it. And maybe I'm heartless for subjecting them to what too often comes with it, and I'm selfish for doing it anyway, I know this. I know this so well it drives me mad. But it is nothing compared to the madness of being alone. Truly and completely and incomprehensibly alone.
Which is why I do it anyway. Despite the danger, despite the mistakes, the not so perfect track record, I keep going back to them, keep letting them find me, keep stepping aside and allowing them in. Because it may not get easier each time they leave, in one way or another, as each of them will. But for a while, just for a little while, before they do, I can remember.
Yes. Just for a little while, for the briefest but most meaningful of moments, I can pretend to forget that I am alone.