Forgetful creatures that we are, write letters, compose songs, curate photographs, and dedicate memoirs in celebration of what once existed. We leave pieces of ourselves behind so that, one day, when we turn back, we might find something waiting for us to remember who we were.

In a world governed by transience, the human heart pulls desperately at the reins of permanence, yearning for even the unobvious to keep the memory of us alive.

We forget that we were created to be travelers upon shifting sands, where our footprints vanish almost as soon as we take another step. We write our names upon sand and snow alike, only to watch the tides wash them away and the snowfall bury them beneath silence.

We long to be seen, heard, and remembered — if not for who we truly were, then at least for the grandeur we believed we had achieved.

Perhaps, to be human is to accept that permanence only exists in that which is preserved.