Nobody seems to understand why the past is so important to me. When your life shatters around you, you have to find all the pieces. You can’t just replace them. They matter and without all of them, the picture makes no fucking sense.
Where you come from, it’s who you are. It’s the answer to all of the hanging question marks above your head. Those answers don’t always come. And I think even the ones that do, arrive later.
The things you forget or can’t recover? Loss. All loss.
That’s a part of you too. It’s alright.
But it’s normal to want to know where you come from. What you come from. It’s a road map, a flashlight, a compass.