Ryan Galloway

Maybe the problem with holding onto memories so tightly is that they don__ allow us to make room for the future. Maybe the gentle decay of the past is a blessing that dulls the sharp blade of regret, allowing the possibility of rebirth.

It was true__ut it was harsh. And it feels like maybe a harsh truth can be as hurtful as a lie.

But when you__e a kid, it isn__ chaos. It__ just a heartbeat. Your house isn__ floating through space, it sits on the ground. Once you get old enough you start to see that color is just paint and doors are just wood. Then, at some point, that feeling of home vanishes entirely. And_ that__ what I fear. That nothing will ever make me feel like I__ safe again. That once you leave home, you never get it back.

Tears sting my eyes once more, building up and rolling over my cheeks with the heat of a dying star. Isn__ that what death is? It__ forgetting. It__ letting go. We make peace with the dead to say goodbye.

Nerve endings. That__ what it all comes down to. Billions of rooted synapses, like trees entwined in erratic soil. Lightning strikes every millionth of a second, the charges scattering across the gaps and down a spinal braid.

I don__ have to let anyone use me. I don__ have to bend the truth. Even if I__ not ready to forgive just yet, I don__ have to be tied to my scars, to the people who wounded me, or to the anger and fear that grew out of it. I can be myself and be honest and not be afraid. Not of getting hurt or of hurting others.

I wonder if this is how it feels to grow old. Knowing that time is still passing but you__e no longer a part of it.

How much dust can a body make? Little specks of death. Measuring life in millimeters.

Every heartbeat a syllable for words I can__ speak, to explain what I want from him. What I want from myself. To know and be known, totally and completely. To be someone worth knowing.