The Things We Hold On To

Long conversations that trail away like the smoke we blew into the horizon. This summer marks two years since I’ve left. This summer, we are all different people. I’ve got marks in my soul I never would’ve gotten had I stayed, but had I stayed is a different story; one I can’t bear to write anymore. 

I want to tell you things you shouldn’t have to hear, because I am an innately selfish person. I write words that I think I should let go of, I tell myself things I think I need to hear, but the truth is simple. 

You broke my heart and you never apologized and it’s always going to hurt, but so what? 

My life feels like it’s split into two contradictions. Long stories with no real endings. I don’t know how to be a person anymore, and it’s scary, terrifying, numbing and painful. I’m a walking wound. But so what? 

The truth is the things we hold on to are the most meaningless, unchangeable things in the world. We want to hold on to the past because the past is easy. The unknown scares us. We want to run away, but we don’t. We’re such strange, timid things, aren’t we? 

I want to go back to being nineteen, but the strange truth that envelops my being is this: I will never be nineteen again, and I’m afraid of going home because home has changed. 

I used to be this shooting star: all fire and blaze and sparks. These days, I’m thankful for quiet. I’m OK with being just a star. I don’t need fire or magic anymore – these illusions are all they are. Illusions. 

Once you’ve been out of college a few years you realize that goals and priorities are fluid, some sacrifices are just not worth it. So I’m sorry if it bothers you that I have joined the army of “drones,” but I don’t regret it in the slightest. I may not be strolling the cobbled streets of Paris in search of the perfect shade of taffeta while a Peter Sarstedt song plays in my mind, but here in the real world I’m doing pretty good.

And my memories drift away like the smoke we once blew into the horizon; and you’re still my best friend, and he’s still a memory, and it still hurts because you never once apologized and I am both the summation of my hearts and not. 

You broke me. I broke you. She has you. I have him. He has me. I am mine. Finally. I think. 

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