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It's ironic that goodbyes hurt when they include the word 'good'

I always assumed that the more often something happened, the more accustomed to it I would be. That simply seemed like a way of the world. I thought it would apply to everything in exactly the same proportion, especially goodbyes. That hasn’t quite been the case. Experience has proved to be quite opposing and as far as goodbyes are concerned, I haven’t managed to take them any easier. They say first cuts hurt the deepest but the second, third or fortieth don’t seem to pain any less either. Going back home feels like a trip back in time. The air is pure with notes of burning palm. The sky is blue and cloudless. The sunshine bathes but never stings. The sunsets at the beach could be framed on a wall, the mango trees seem to be perpetually ripe with fruit and even walks around the grocery aisles feel languid and therapeutic. So when the days begin to slip out of my fingers and packing cannot be procrastinated anymore, that’s when the melancholy begins to settle in. No matter

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