Because it's not like we're meaningless pigments of our memories. We are every aspect planted down to the roots of whatever tomorrow will always be.
The arts of letting go.
Sometimes, I like to keep the fire of anger burning inside of me. I want to keep it lit; the resentment, the weight, the darkness. Sometimes it's easier that way. It's easier to continue on this way when I've something pushing me towards it. Away from you. But oh what a mistake to let myself bend. To let myself break, or breathe, or turn soft. Because I know that the second I do, I'd run right back, helpless and eager, and we'll play along this circle how ever many more times.
"I don't think it was love. I think it was a dependence thing." Why did it always feel like this meant us? It's not true. It'll never be true. You don't think so either, don't you?
I don't ever want to forget. Ever. Not a single minute of a single day. Not the pains in our chests. Not the promises we couldn't keep. I want to keep everything. Store them all inside, where you left your mark...
The arts of letting go.
Sometimes, I like to keep the fire of anger burning inside of me. I want to keep it lit; the resentment, the weight, the darkness. Sometimes it's easier that way. It's easier to continue on this way when I've something pushing me towards it. Away from you. But oh what a mistake to let myself bend. To let myself break, or breathe, or turn soft. Because I know that the second I do, I'd run right back, helpless and eager, and we'll play along this circle how ever many more times.
"I don't think it was love. I think it was a dependence thing." Why did it always feel like this meant us? It's not true. It'll never be true. You don't think so either, don't you?
I don't ever want to forget. Ever. Not a single minute of a single day. Not the pains in our chests. Not the promises we couldn't keep. I want to keep everything. Store them all inside, where you left your mark...
