on getting drawn

I have these feelings - that nothing is permanent. That life is drawn on us with thick black pens, and it lasts for a day or two. But as soon as we want to wash it off - there it goes.

Impermanence. Everything is always going to fade, to crumble, to end.

And I have this feeling - this need to hang on to things that seem important; that I want to last. Want to be permanent. Forever.

But, nothing is - really.

Everything can be undone, taken away, removed. Burned out of us, torn away from us. Cut out.
With next to no scarring.

Some things are supposed to be permanent.
I wish, in everything, we would stop pretending that - truly - nothing is.

A handful of things are.
Can we not respect them?

No. We are running at such an incomprehensibly fast pace away from ourselves that existence itself seems to bend away from us, into arcs of little nothings. Into a vapor that soon passes.

We cannot be such a vapor.
Don't tell me we are a vapor.
And don't try to convince me that these permanent things are not thus.

When love fades or breaks apart into the expanse, no longer a cosmos - so shall we.