planned obsolescence

I get attached to things.
They stick to my fingers and it is hard to peel them off
When it is time to part ways.
I find it hard to throw things away,
To discard what was once used and loved.

For it is love, isn’t it?
We forget that a large part of history is stories,
That memories and cherished moments intertwine our history with theirs,
And tie together our existences.
Of course we cannot say goodbye.
What a life it has been.

I am not sure if it is easier or harder these days,
With planned obsolescence and single-use disposables,
Are connections lessened by the normalisation of destruction?
Or does it just mean that heartbreak comes sooner and more often?

The world crumbles by design.
It consoles me,
Telling me this is just humanity’s contribution to decay and rebirth.
It whispers about new features and fashions,
Telling me not to worry,
Telling me to forget.
It makes me cling to the old even more.