One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day.  Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel.  None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch.  And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones.  And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Of course you've changed, you've changed, your mind's been rearranged

Every Summer, the same thing happens: the structure lent to my life by school crumbles apart and friendships are suddenly exposed to the harsh light of our human failings - laziness, selfishness, fear, disinterest. We strive to believe the lies we tell each other - "I miss you", "I can't wait to be with you", and the like -, but these are shown to be a sham by our lack of actual effort to share and communicate with each other. 

It is my fault as well, I am not a hopeless victim of circumstances beyond my control: I know I tend to live very much inside my own head, and that I often choose to stay home reading something interesting instead of going out (mostly, this is a passive choice of not inviting people to go out, not an active choice of refusing invitations). And then, of course, friendship requires effort. It must be nourished and fed, otherwise it dies away in a surprising short time.

And then there is that sickening little jolt when you are walking up the stairs in the dark, expecting another step where there isn't any, and you feel, for a milisecond, that you're doomed. Poof! Your friends? Gone. Strangers with the same physical appearance - often not even that - have taken their place, and look at you through bleary eyes, and new tonalities fill their voices as they talk of the distant land of their lives.

You can just picture them, at that moment, following the small steps of some sterotypical existence which fits their social position and apparent disposition. Sure, you wish them happiness, but in an empty way which is not at all like the personal, shared fever of the "once upon a time" of that particular friendship.

Maybe the issue here is that, in our personal relationships, we tend to suppose others - and yourself - will stay the same, so that you can carry on sharing indefinitely. It is part of our ever-present desire for immortality. But life is not a museum, and people will always be swerved in different directions by diverging pressures, and make different choices. In this way, they will take different shapes: the "self" is not fixed, it is simply the sum total of experiences and genetic background. 

I suppose it is a good thing that the Summer gives us a chance to get some perspective on our relationships, to analyze other people's behaviour and to decide if we want to let them go or cling to them. The lack of the artificial constraints of school life gives freedom to make these important choices. This year, as school is gone for good, the perspective I get is particularly unclouded; and I know that, from now on, all the friendships I have made will require even more effort to stay alive.

Still, it does not fill me with joy to be disappointed, to find faults which I cannot overlook and which stop me from trusting, and even make me question if I ever knew them. I don't like losing people; but it is unavoidable.