Is Life Meant to Be Transient?

Life has always felt like a journey to me—sometimes like a river, sometimes like a winding road. A river flows through tangled forests, messy cities, and open fields, occasionally dropping as a waterfall before merging into the vast ocean. A road, on the other hand, twists upward and downward until it eventually ends. Whichever way you imagine it, the truth remains the same: we encounter countless moments and people along the way, yet we keep moving forward. Some experiences stay sharp in memory, while others blur into the background.

Looking back, I used to think friendships were permanent. My childhood friend and I spent five years together, from nursery to class three—picnics, games, endless laughter. Then he left the school, and our paths split. Later, I found new friends, shared benches, tiffins, and games, only to watch those connections fade as life took me in different directions. The cycle repeated in my teenage years, in high school, and even in college. Each time I thought, This is it—these are my lifelong friends. But each time, distance, change, and time pulled us apart.

And then came Hammond.

I’m nearly 8,000 miles from home, away from my parents, my culture, my country. And yet, here, I’ve found something I never expected—a family of brothers. The seniors look out for me like older siblings. The newcomers feel like younger brothers I want to guide. Together, we’ve built a second home.

We’ve lived through weekends that turn into stories. Like that night after New Year’s—sitting around with Captain Morgan whiskey, hot water, and Maggi noodles, laughing at jokes that probably made no sense but felt perfect in that moment. Or the countless evenings of FIFA battles, cheering and groaning like it was the World Cup. It’s not just the big nights—it’s the little rituals that stitch Hammond into me. The morning gym sessions that start our day. The college classes that test us but keep us moving forward side by side. The projects where frustration turns into inside jokes. The evening walks where conversations wander as freely as our steps. The football games where we play like kids again, forgetting the weight of assignments and deadlines.

Hammond has given me memories I didn’t just live—I’ve felt them. And that’s why it feels so much like home. But then, an uneasy thought creeps in: what happens after graduation? When this chapter closes, will the bonds we’ve built here scatter like the ones from my past? Will we stay brothers—or slowly turn into strangers whose memories exist only in photos and fading group chats?

Are these strings that hold us together—the gym, the classes, the parties—strong enough to stretch across states, across countries, across time? Or are they meant to break once we leave this place?

I don’t know. Maybe life is meant to be transient, maybe not. But perhaps the real question is this: Do we simply accept that all things fade—or do we fight to keep alive the connections that truly make a place feel like home?