The Art of Good-bye

The Art of Good-bye

or The Sixth of May

   The astonishing finality of what just happened took my by a languid surprise. I was finished, now. After several definite conquests, executing a gesture (pleasant, at that) of mere friendship was immensely satisfying and filling.

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   No, ceremonius good-byes are my thing. I was going to say that they weren’t, but that would have been a lie. I suppose I really do adore the carefully-chosen words, the expertly-crafted last impression (which, skillfully-executed, can make a passing acquaintance or even an often-snubbed feel like he not only matters in your conceptions of the universe, but that he holds a special place within it), and the (in the case, usually of a very pretty girl) satisfied emptiness of spirit which accompanies it.
   There is something worshipfull in a good-bye — no matter to whom it is spoken — and it cannot be treated lightly even to scorn one most deserving. Indeed, the power of a good-bye is at its best and most reverent when it is also necessarily insincere.

This was written on May 6, 2004. It is actually a combination of two journal entries related in idea.
Crosspost: The Random Quill and Harbour in the Scramble