I’m thinking about moving. I’m thinking about how when I go, my absence from here likely won’t have too great an impact on anyone’s life. My friends will miss me on occasions when they think of me, think it would be nice to see me and regret that it’s not so easy anymore. But that will happen rarely.
It’s not that I am unimportant or forgettable. It’s not that I am not loved. I am just not part of anyone’s daily life. I am a bit of a secondary or even tertiary character. For some I am a novelty that gets plucked down from the shelf every six months or so to have the dust brushed off. My friends all have their own lives, their own families, their own partners, their own circles. Life will continue in the same way for them without me here. Mostly, my absence will go unnoticed. Selfishly, I wish that wasn’t the case.
I am afraid of not really mattering. It seems to be the fear beneath those that float to the surface as I think of all this. To be honest, I’m not too troubled by it at the moment. It’s there and I’m aware of it, just as I am aware of the strange detachment I seem to have to all of this right now.