What Remains When We Depart When we leave, we do not only abandon those we love — we also leave behind the objects that quietly accompanied us through the journey of life. Those that were intimate witnesses to our days: a chair that held our rest, a piano that resonated with our emotions, a sculpture we contemplated in silence. They were part of our identity — extensions of our being.
Once we vanish, their meaning dissolves. Some become relics, others drift into the debris of oblivion. Perhaps someone preserves them, granting them a new story, a new memory. Or perhaps they remain suspended, floating in the void, stripped of meaning — without the gaze that once gave them purpose.
Objects do not die with us. They remain — still, expectant — as fragments of a time that no longer belongs to them. Silent witnesses to who we were, motionless remnants of our impermanence. We never say goodbye to them. We simply cease to be. And they remain, quietly sustaining our absence. Music: Chopin: "Suffocation" Prelude in E Minor Op. 28, No. 4
