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People move on from me, this have been proven one too many times.
Unforgettable, plain, common and everything in between.
I have made a character of a blooming stone. Unrealistic expectations for someone who just lives in years to come.
It is sad when a child finds her drawings from some early years, stains made with crayons and hope, and only sees the things it didn't grow to be. Worse than blood on white fabric, the life of what could have been.
Yet, you can built in the land that's still living while the ink hasn't dried up. New to-do lists cover these stains and some stories are still left to be told.
So I will rebuilt these walls with new words and fresh laughter. I will make sure the mirror knows my name.
I will take every question that went unanswered before and shave off the sides to give it a new tone. A new opportunity.
But sometimes, when the night is dark like this and the pages of other people's stories aren't enough to mend my soul, I open the box of everything that doesn't fit the bigger picture and cry in wonder why it is so hard to let go?