A little green plastic card shouldn't feel like an inseparable part of life. Why should things seem to hinge upon it when, in fact, nothing does? But turning it in for good seems like an act of finality; tacking that final nail on a box of surreal, extraordinarily good times and adventures that were once dreamt of, to shove it into the attic of a cherished house that I'm moving out of, but will have to keep visiting against my will.
Memories are a curse. I cannot imagine I've spent so many years building them up- and still continue to, piece by piece, knowing there'll be more pain than reassurance whenever I decide to fall back on them. That's the way of the head and the heart, though- they only pretend to be sensible. Pragmatism flees when challenged by emotion. Things, memories- we cannot help but cling to them.
And yet, memento mori.