It is a universal fact in life that people come and go. Just like the seasons and cities and organic matter, nothing and nobody stays the same they were and due to this predictable flux, people come and go.
Disregard how solipsistic this may sound but we really do remember people the most by the way they make us feel, they relate to us, they help us, they influence us. I have memories where everything is fuzzy at the edges, causality is disturbed, and time and place are just nouns void of further meaning, but at the core there is a clearly defined vortex of a generic emotion that is somehow made specific by being attached to a singular person. The flavor of joy I feel when thinking of this friend is utterly dissimilar to the joy that attaches itself to that friend.
Those very memories are at the core of who we are, at least as reflected from the perspective of others. I know that I am the one feeling the joy and that this means I must be capable as a person of feeling this joy. Yet I do not identify as my emotion or my reality. I attribute it solely to other people around me who produce all that there is in me.
Alone I feel dread and humor; I worry and I laugh privately; I am able to enjoy music and weep with a book. But those feelings do not form memories that define who I am. Often they don’t even become memories. They remain just a momentary exercise of one’s will over our innate responsive and impressionable state – state that we inherited from being children, now carefully hidden apart from who we need to be instead.
With friends, I gain back my individuality, my personhood. I feel whole and understandable. I feel like there is a further meaning there. I hope that in this new city, days will turn into months and months will turn into friendships soon.