Have you ever heard a song so breathtakingly beautiful,
that your first thought is tinged with sadness
at the notion that someday,
inevitably, you will depart this world
and never hear it again?
Then, mere months later,
as that same melody
once again drifts from your playlist,
you find your hand,
almost instinctively,
pressing skip,
its once vibrant essence now worn, nearly threadbare.
Time ebbs,
and the song fades from your daily symphony,
forgotten for a year,
maybe longer,
until one day, in the hum of a coffee shop
or amidst the vinyl buzz
of an eclectic record store,
it finds you again.
Abruptly, you’re snatched back
to that initial surge of awe and longing,
the poignant fear of a final farewell.
Chaucer famously claimed
that familiarity breeds contempt.
I’m not sure about that,
but it certainly breeds a subtle indifference,
a gentle forgetting,
a quiet, unintentional neglect,
until a memory, like a long-lost lover,
whispers back into your life,
renewing the once forgotten magic.
The Truth About Tigers 
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