I wonder if there is really a part of us that we can wholeheartedly call our own. From birth we are touched by people who, willingly or, most of the times, unwillingly, leave a mark on us, influence, shape us in a way or another we might never be conscious of. Everything leaves a mark. Everyone leaves a mark. We are so closely interwoven to each other in our actions that it can get quite scary, once you think about it.
We develop feelings towards every person that we open our heart to, and we store them into ourselves, like books on shelves. Some, we like to read repetitively, because they comfort us and make us feel good. Some, we put further away, on the back shelves because reading them hurt us or made us doubt ourselves or brought back long forgotten, hurtful memories. Some, we are afraid to read, so we only look at their covers, wondering what they hold inside.
As time goes by, some of the books collect dust and their pages become worn out, and as much as we like to believe that they are gone, that they have been lost somewhere along the way, the truth is that they are still on the shelves inside us, on their obscurest corners. We can never get away from them, for they have rooted themselves so deeply inside of us. Saying that you don’t care anymore, that you don’t love someone anymore is like denying parts of yourself, because these feelings are still there, they still linger somewhere in the shadowy corners of your soul, not as strong as they once used to be, some maybe barely alive, but still there, always there.
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