Are all things that start meant to end ? isn't there something that transcends, this mortal cycle of birth and death? are those things meant to be hidden forever, in forgotten, musty recesses of time? not meant to be shared for the fear of unearthing something, long since buried.

What happens to those moments and feelings, that are too scared to be known? do they go to the grave with us then? 

or is there some unknown force, 

that passes them on to the people they were meant for

without the medium of words?