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

As death, when we come to consider it closely, is the true goal of our existence . . .

Every heartbeat a syllable for words I can’t 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.

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

But when you’re a kid, it isn’t chaos. It’s just a heartbeat. Your house isn’t 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’s what I fear. That nothing will ever make me feel like I’m safe again. That once you leave home, you never get it back.

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