Fleeting

This week I had to return to a house I lived in last year in order to empty some final dregs of furniture. It felt strange to return, to stir up memories, to see my DIY efforts still present-a painted garden gate, picture hooks in the bare walls. At the time it was important to us.
It is the house I made my home after four years without a home, the house where I wrote my first book, the house where I proposed to my girlfriend. And yet now it is bare and empty and my life has moved on.
I wrote my second book elsewhere, I've hung new picture hooks, my girlfriend is now my wife. How fleeting is life, how transient all that we think of as permanent, how unimportant is much that we consider important.