Many goodbyes will be said this winter, and it's no strange concept to me. Amongst the many people where the goodbyes are said, most are new people with new faces, with the exception of myself, who has been constant, or at least appeared to be. Running through these goodbyes are of course complicated affairs - a little bit of good wishes, some bittersweet emotions, and many more lunch and coffee dates that are set up because departures tend to make people less timid. During these dates there are often lively discussions about a variety of issues, ranging from the more mundane ones of career, success, friends and family, to the more vague ones such as the values and perils of upholding morality, the courage of trust and the cowardice of the lack thereof, or just in general, how to remain upright in the face of the great bending pressure of the real world. These discussions certainly don't lead anywhere. They merely provide an air cover for something that may or may not fully exist, which is respect with a little bit of genuine affinity, to the extent appropriate and feasible in the context of a four-story corporate office building.
The end of every episode, however brief, in my life has come with its unique flavor of being hectic in a good way. The end of one thing often implies the debut of another. Even though I have cycled through quite a bit of these, I must confess that I have never successfully come to terms with the end of anything, regardless of its nature. So I carry with me as much as I can remember, so that the debut of the new thing could be shared between me and my past. But my memories aren't quite long-lasting either. At the end I don't remember a thing no more and can only vague feel what was previously there. This time it is no different. The two years of myriad things cannot be remembered fully, nor understood, nor defined neatly, I could only feel some of the hopes and some of the despairs as the end of another episodic past nears again while I keep going on as if it's not. But of course it is, and perceptibly so. As a result, the loose ends I haven't tied up or are still churning out will probably remain loose, adrift in the inexorable forward marching of time. I could only send them off in evenings like this one, in front of a computer screen and only with a whimper, hoping that eventually some of them will be caught.
Many years ago, I once felt that "large hopes are difficult to find". But to me now perhaps as someone a bit more seasoned, finding hope and hope itself are indeed quite distinct terms. Hope, whether found or not, remains, for it isn't a concept in the school of realism, it's a product of the mind, and it isn't large or small. And I think I still have it despite or because of the past two years, evidenced by my moving around, or to borrow the words of a certain British gentleman, my many jitters. I can't yet discern what the past two years have imbued in me, or whether anything has ever been fully imbued in me. I feel I have remained more or less structurally the same, only a bit more composed here, or a touch too easy there compared to before.
As such, going back into my new life in the old country shouldn't be too dire.
