I've been finding lost gloves everywhere.

It's hard to believe that lost things would just lie on the ground so peacefully. You would think they should still half-reside in the one pocket you forgot to check during the frantic search for the keys, that it would materialise at the bottom of the backpack if only you looked inside enough times; that it must be somewhere between the sofa cushions.

you would expect lost things to be hiding behind the thin veil that separates the things themselves from what is called reality, counting the minutes to make an appearance. Hiding somewhat mischievously. Loitering with intent.

It seems anticlimactic that they had escaped at some point in time impossible to recall because that moment was never noted, the memories never made in the first place.

A bit ironic that it has been laying on some extremely unmemorable piece of concrete all this time; A bit insulting to the senses that there is no chase scene ending with a grand reunion, only a faint absence, a footnote pointing to volumes never written.

Things get lost in winter. Where do they all go?

I was never good at holding on to things. As a child I would find a piece of marble on the ground and pronounce it the most beautiful thing in the world. I would hold it wherever I go, checking my palm every couple of minutes, reassured by its smooth weight.

I could never keep them for long. The beloved marbles would go away one after another. When I lose my alertness in sleep they would escape between my fingers, disappearing into the many folds of the duvet, never to be seen again.

By the time I woke up it was always too late.

Losing cannot be prevented - things get lost when you leave the house, things get lost when you stay inside, things get lost when you drop something on the floor of your own bedroom, and any time your roof may disappear and you can get caught in a hurricane that carries you off to neverland and you will never find your way home again. Would that be a misfortune or a blessing?

All things get lost in the end.

Buildings crumble when they cannot resist the constant pull of gravity, things get lost when we can no longer hold on to them; and it's in the nature of living things to let go eventually.

When the little tentacles that hold to the surface of the landscape called memory begin to slip, when the arm tires and the last finger comes loose, and there you go falling into oblivion.

There is a peacefulness, a solace, almost a defiance to these things - that such a fate is not really so terrifying, and not entirely without dignity.