Nothing Lasts Anymore

Everything’s temporary now, or maybe it always was and I’m just paying attention. Trends disappear in weeks. People drift in and out. You find something you care about and it’s already gone.

I want the good stuff—sex, money, real friends who get it, people who make me think or laugh. I want to feel that edge where you don’t know if you’re breaking down or breaking through. Routine is dangerous; stagnation is death.

The thing is not to grip too tight. You learn that people and situations dissolve whether you want them to or not, and the only smart move is knowing when to let go before the whole thing poisons you. There’s no point carrying weight that doesn’t belong to you anymore. When something bores you or makes you miserable or sucks the air out of everything, you cut it loose and make room for the people and things that actually lift you back up.

Every goodbye carries that feeling of a foggy summer morning in it—you’ve dumped the old weight and suddenly everything’s wide open again. That’s the real rush. Baby, it’s a wild world.