In the end it seems we're just toys,easy to break and hard to mend

Hold to a thing long enough, a secret, a desire, maybe a lie, and it will shape you.

You can't grow if you're constantly defined by this collection of frozen moments that you keep returning to. And if you can't grow, you're not alive.

I think maybe we die every day. Maybe we're born new each dawn, a little changed, a little further on our own road. When enough days stand between you and the person you were, you're strangers. Maybe that's what growing up is. Maybe I have grown up.

Each day the memories weigh a little heavier. Each day they drag you down that bit further. You wind them around you, a single thread at a time, and you weave your own shroud, you build a cocoon, and in it madness grows.

The biggest lies we save for ourselves.

There’s something brittle in me that will break before it bends.