On Finality, Impermanence, and Closure

There's always this horrible visceral feeling that clouds my enjoyment of something if I know that I will see something or do something for the very last time. It's uncomfortable, hollow, and uneasy. I think it's formally known as anticipatory grief, but ascribed to anything and everything I encounter. Not an overwhelming sadness, but rather a strong melancholy, just enough to dampen the mood at an otherwise pleasant event. Look at all this fun I am having - will I ever do something like this again? See this location again? See all of these people again? And it permeates to pretty much every encounter I have, to a greater or lesser extent, and it's kind of unbearable sometimes, this way I metabolise the passing of time.

Most lasts in life are invisible. You don't know that it's happening, and it gives your brain a nasty jolt later on. I seem to particularly get this with really insignificant yet nostalgic things, like how at some point I had this favourite toy, a cat which purred and moved its head when you patted its back. Evidently one day I did that for the very last time, and at some point later I guess my parents tossed the little fella when the sound box and the motor didn't work quite so well, worn down by hours of affection. The next such fella was a plushie Piglet, from Winnie the Pooh, who had pride of place amongst a small cohort of other stuffed toys, and was a valuable companion for years. One summer I came back from seeing my grandparents, and it was unceremoniously announced to me that all the fellas were gone. Some invisible cut-off had been reached and I was deemed Too Old for such possessions. My parents don't bother with things like charity shops (and seem to genuinely not understand the concept that one might want something second-hand), so I'm sure they just all went in the bin one day, never to be enjoyed by anyone again. That really fucking hurts to think about every time and I can't figure out why. I guess in part it's an overempathetic ascription of some kind of humanity to cute anthropomorphic things. Partly a pent up frustration that these things which could have seen more owners and more love had their last moments prematurely, which is frustrating in a world full of economic inequality and excessive consumerism. A marker of a simpler time, before my eyes endlessly kept being opened to just how shitass life tends to be in all manner of ways. It was just me and Piglet hanging out back then. And now there is nobody else left to remember the version of me who loved that toy.

After that formative event, I have contemplated my last moments with various possessions more and more. The last time I wore a perfectly nice pair of shoes which got tossed when I was unable to pack them for a house move. Every item of clothing I begrudgingly give up to a charity shop when I have no more space. Little plastic gubbins which adorn my desk or a shelf which eventually have to go. I hate this feeling every time. Did I appreciate this item enough? Will someone else appreciate it? Am I an awful unappreciative materialist who gets rid of things too soon when they are no longer new and shiny and exciting, or is it reasonable to give up this shirt which I have not worn for over a year and is absolutely not my style any more? Again, this ties back to the notion of overconsumerism and the mounds of waste we as humanity produce. I know I'm not making a difference by being mindful of it, but it makes me feel good to know I've done good by the world even a tiny bit. Or at least it makes me feel less bad. It never really feels good, because every item in my life has some sort of significance to me as a component of all my memories with it as a background object, and the eras of my life that it was tied to. It brought me some form of joy at some point, and now it no longer does, and that sucks. Eventually I determine that I have contemplated it enough that there is some closure (though never satisfying), and I force myself to move along.

For many things, though, there is no ritual, because I had no idea it was the last time, and nothing about the moment felt significant. I can't remember the last time I experienced many things. This unknowingness is part of the nasty pit-of-the-stomach feeling that I didn't do it right.

These musings extend to locations. Will I ever see this place again? Look at what a nice time I had; will I remember this later? Will anyone else appreciate this combination of feelings and visuals and details just the way I have? Have I appreciated this sufficiently? Was it intended to be appreciated? Does it desire appreciation? Sometimes towards the end of a stay at a place I try and soak it all in for a bit, and try to encode the bits I enjoyed the most. Not only an atomic place, like a hotel room or something, but also places like countries I visit. Will I ever go to any of these places again, or is that memory it? Most of the places I have been to are in Europe, so they all feel very accessible, but maybe life will happen and I won't get around to seeing somewhere like Budapest ever again, despite really wanting to. And this notion of my own personal memory of a place, and how nobody else will remember it in the exact same way feels awfully lonely sometimes, despite the sea of tourists who surround me. I saw this thing, on this day, in this weather, at this time, with this context of my life, and it meant something to me in a way it never has or will to anyone else. And I have probably glanced over some things which meant a lot to somebody else in a way I couldn't possibly conceive of. And the weight of this all is so isolating because I'm the only one who could possibly "do it right", and even if I tell you about it later, you won't feel the same visceral tug.

Places change too, and with them the memories that can be made - when I went to Istanbul in 2016ish the Hagia Sophia was a museum, a cultural time capsule of eras gone by and a marker of Istanbul's identity as the capital of three empires. It has since been converted to a mosque, with historic artifacts not befitting of this changed purpose covered up. A piece of art or architecture worked on by someone long since dead and perhaps forgotten, not permitted to be viewed again. Hopefully not destroyed or damaged, lest we lose a bit of history forever. It's kind of insane to me that places like Syria with incredibly rich cultural heritage have had so many ancient sites just razed to the ground by war. The work of so many people gone in a split second. It's crazy how that can just happen and we can never make it right again.

When I went to Russia in 2018, the world didn't know what was to come. The FIFA world cup had finished not long before, and Zabivaka mascots were everywhere; we were welcome to enter and enjoy this beautiful country, and I thought about how cool it might be to visit again in the future and see even more of it. I remember a little market in Saint Petersburg where I bought some Really Cool sunglasses and some of this really nice flavoured honey-based spread of some kind, and how I was too shy to practice my Russian when purchasing it. And a cool gallery with some indie art which we looked around, which was just on the top floor of some apartment building, almost unnoticeable. And some really cool small museums like one about the history of space, and one with cool shadow art, and one with old Soviet arcade games. I remember a group of buskers doing a really cool cover of Smells Like Teen Spirit in Moscow. Hopefully all these memories are doing their original events justice, and the people and things in them were as appreciated as they deserved. Now the world is even more on fire, and who knows if seeing Russia will ever be achievable again in my life. I hope so.

What a lot of these things have in common is that there is no ritual, no goodbye. It reminds you of just how powerless you are, and how little control you have over your life. Our brains are tuned to notice impermanence, even if they are not consciously thinking about mortality and the like. Maybe it's an emotional rehearsal for when we do experience major moments of grief. This is another thing my brain does a lot which I despise. You hear that thing sometimes about how you shouldn't ever leave off on a bad note with someone, because you never know what might happen, and I feel that far too hard. My brain reads that as having to treat every goodbye as if it basically is your last, lest something happens and you have some regrets over things not said, and feeling not expressed, and hugs not hugged, and hugs hugged insufficiently long. It's kind of exhausting and I try to mute it as much as possible at least.

Maybe this hyper-awareness of impermanence isn't so bad. It does make me more present, and more appreciative, and more likely to form the memories I want to. Nothing would feel precious without impermanence, and this ache is proof of the meaning of what I experience. What an irritating platitude. But it's not totally wrong. I do, however, need to figure out a way to do this without all the emotional labour, I suppose. There are so many endings in life that dwelling on them all won't do me any good. What if this brain dump on closure is a form of closure itself woah.