Random Thoughts

Getting to the End

Since switching temporary homes, I have not slept alone. Here’s a picture (albeit a bad one) of my bedtime companion:

Ophelia – your breaking my heart

This is Ophelia, Jessie and Karl’s black cat, who is super cuddily and has joined me for “cuddle time” every night when I’ve gone to bed.

Well today went by and I still have my car. So that’s a plus. However, it’s getting to the part where I realize that I only have a little bit of time left with my friends here, and that’s always sad. I feel myself always trying to pump more meaning into the last moments for some reason, then realize I really can’t, get into my car and drive away, hoping that the magic of the music I listen to will somehow keep us together, and know that one day it’ll all make sense. Even little things like the Borders I sat in for an hour yesterday. I go through this everytime I take a trip and stay somewhere for any length of time, and I find myself saying goodbye to inanimate objects, as if I must sever the relationship properly before I can really leave. I suppose it’s that human need to feel like we’ve left a mark, like our existence has been sensed. I keep hoping that I’ve somehow impacted the ether of this place, and my presence here will somehow live on. Late night ramblings of an overactive mind.

So goodbye Minneapolis, until we meet again. I may hate your football team, but I have enjoyed the company of your city.

And goodnight, Ophelia.

3 thoughts on “Getting to the End”

  1. I know exactly what you mean. I feel the same sense that my time in a place, however short, needs to Mean Something, and because of that meaning, my farewell should be a little dramatic. Maybe we’re both crazy…

  2. “You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place, I told him, like you’ll not only miss the place, you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way again.” — Azar Nafisi

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.