Something loved.

Soon I won't live in Turkey anymore. And the things that I do here won't be done by me anymore. Other people might do them here, but I won't. The life I have here will be splintered and divided up and led by other people. Soon different hands will play my piano, different eyes will do my job and stare at my work computer. Different bones will sleep in my bed, different flip flopped feet will slap at all the streets that I love. And different ears, lucky ears will hear my friends' words. Many different people will pick up my life here eventually and make it their own, while I work my way in and pick up the fragments that other people have left behind somewhere else. It's a strange feeling to just constantly continue, and continue and continue, especially when everything feels and looks so different and foreign. But it's all just a continuation of millions of different people, some that have come and gone, others that are still here somewhere. It's hard to keep track of who you are when you've picked up and let go of so many lives. Each one something precious, each one something loved.