Growing scars.

In the comfort of moving on, in the ease of going through daily life, in the lost pain of a bad news, I search for nonchalance. Maybe, in an effort to shield myself, I try not to care. Maybe, in an effort to move on so easily, I try not to stay. Maybe, in an effort to guard my heart, I shut it out. But honestly, how effortlessly. How effortlessly that I begin to wonder if all the wounds of the past have indeed healed, but how they've also grown scars that make it so hard to feel. Because in the place I expect to be filled with grief and sorrow and regret, I seem to find nothing. Somehow it feels like an empty space is worse than one filled with the wrong things.