We are dead. I, you, and everyone we had ever known when we were alive is dead. The huge collection of books that you used to dust every weekend, and arrange in patterns astonishing everyone who gazed through the front door is now sitting in clutters in the storeroom. A TV acquires the place of the bookshelf. The front door is no longer the lush green it used to be. The Almira that once stored your valuables, the mirror which witnessed you getting dressed every morning, the small cabinet, ownership of which inspired many quarrels between me and you, that Almira along with the small Stewie Griffin figurine which I had kept secured since our early adulthood has been recycled into cans and bicycles. Our next-generation has recycled our stuff, our memories, our dreams, and our legacy.
When I was a boy I used to think that everything will last forever, there was a permanence in everything I experienced. That imaginary version could not last forever and slowly as I aged, the impermanence of things started to dawn on me. This lesson was not a part of any class I took but its importance left a mark which no class could. The denial of this volatility is the first response, but I could not, as I had lost enough by the time, deny. I used to think that nature was the ultimate recycling plant as it slowly replaces and reuses the past to create for the new. But nature will not remove your favorite painting from the drawing-room, your own children will. New life requires room to live and that room is created from the wreckage you once called your own.