Someone recently said something to me. It was a passing comment. One that hasn't left my mind since the time it was made.
He said - "Memories aren't always yours to keep."
I had never thought of them in that way. I have always felt a sense of entitlement to the experiences I have had in my life and the lessons I have learnt from them. However, I thought about it subconsciously..constantly..and I realized that perhaps my stance on it wasn't set in stone. It wasn't thought of. It was something I took for granted.

How can memories just belong to me? Especially the kinds made by me and someone else. 

How can I  preserve something whose one half has been obliterated?

How can I protect its sanctity when I don't have it in its entirety?

Are we too scared to admit that memories are just our way of holding on to something that will never come back; a desperate attempt in denial..a crawling space to hide?

I have used you so much...my crawling space. I know your every contour. Your every ridge. Your darkness. Your surfaces smooth by overuse. Every time I am scared or insecure, I crawl into you. I close my eyes. I curl up and listen to the silence. I fill my head with memories. Good and bad. Comforting, because they existed. Nothing can change them now. So much better than the uncertainty of now and hereon.

I love you because you are familiar to me. You will never change. You will always be there, sturdy and motionless against my back. You will give me a clean slate to draw with my thoughts and my memories. You will let me think for those few moments, that my world is in my control. That I am the master of my destiny. That nobody else gets to tweak the ending or change the details. I love you because you let me be exactly who I am. Vulnerable, but hopeful.

I love you because you never change. Even if I do.