You may think the past has something to tell you. You may think that you should listen, should strain to make out its whispers, should bend over backward, stop down low to hear its voice breathed up from the ground, from the dead places. You may think there’s something in it for you, something to understand or make sense of.
But I know the truth: I know from the nights of coldness. I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. Its hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build up inside of you like a stone.
Take it from me, if you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging at your back and running its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do —the only thing— is run.

After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul and you learn love doesn’t mean leaning and company doesn’t always mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts and presents aren’t always promises and you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and and your eyes ahead with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child. And you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight. After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers And you learn that you really can endure, that you really are strong and you really do have worth and you learn and you learn,
with every good-bye you learn.