on holding on

When something’s left so far behind you that you can barely see it, you’ve moved on and moved forwards, and yet you still cling to the tiny, dead, petals - the strands of what was before. The idea of putting it out with the trash, the last once alive memories you have of an experience that helped you become who you are, pains you like a cross-bow shooting its arrow into your ribcage, torturously close to your heart, yet not close enough for a clean death, a quick break. Lingering moments, loose ends that still require attention, forever scintillating and threatening you with their deceptive good looks, their devilish charms. And even though you ceased to care a long time ago, these last pages before the end of the book are always the hardest to read.