Of permenance

I used to measure truth by longevity. Love, friendship, connection—if it lasted, I believed it was real. My sense of reality was tangled with the idea of permanence. It took me a long time to see otherwise. Now I understand: truth is not defined by duration. Some of the most genuine moments are fleeting—brief, luminous, and complete in themselves.

Like the sudden rain after a long, stifling summer day—what we once called Kalbaishakhi. The rain of my childhood. The smell of wet earth—petrichor, though I didn’t know the word then. Thunder rolling across the sky, cool drops against warm skin. Those storms don’t come the same way anymore. Just like so many things from childhood, they’ve faded or changed. And yet, the feelings they left behind remain etched deep, almost dreamlike, like a lover’s first, unforgettable kiss. Life shifts with every step. No two days are alike, and each one carries its own kind of truth. Permanence, I’ve learned, is only an illusion, a quiet comfort we cling to in a world that is always, inevitably, changing.