Trust is slowly built and quickly lost. A mountain cut in half by a landslide. Sometimes, things are not as sturdy as what you thought you were walking on.
He felt the pang and then the denial and then the pang as he slid open the drawer once again.
And viewed the contents, undisturbed.
It proved nothing except what was already broken.
Steven Joel Brown
Sometimes, the days he faced were simple, easy. He’d rise, spend his time as he needed, speak easily with those around him, pass peacefully into slumber without tension or thought. Other days, his teeth were aching when he finally hit the mattress, body afloat and untethered in that detached sort of way that felt like dread but lacked the urgency. It was difficult, after those days, to find the will to rise the next morning. Fear of what might come again, had come again, would with certainty one day come again.
But then it wasn’t always. Again, yes, but…never always. Never without a glimpse of those easy, common days. And as the sun peered through his shoddy blinds, casting a curious beam across his pillow, highlighting the creases in his fingertips and striping the wrist he raised to its touch, he found he could breathe in its faint, early warmth.
What awaited him didn’t matter, at the end of it. There was always another day. He could trust that much.
“Trust me,” he seemed to be saying to me, but then he did untrustworthy action. Finally, I could say I trusted him – trusted him to deceive me. Then our relationship abruptly halted.
Trust is slowly built and quickly lost. A mountain cut in half by a landslide. Sometimes, things are not as sturdy as what you thought you were walking on.
He felt the pang and then the denial and then the pang as he slid open the drawer once again.
And viewed the contents, undisturbed.
It proved nothing except what was already broken.
Sometimes, the days he faced were simple, easy. He’d rise, spend his time as he needed, speak easily with those around him, pass peacefully into slumber without tension or thought. Other days, his teeth were aching when he finally hit the mattress, body afloat and untethered in that detached sort of way that felt like dread but lacked the urgency. It was difficult, after those days, to find the will to rise the next morning. Fear of what might come again, had come again, would with certainty one day come again.
But then it wasn’t always. Again, yes, but…never always. Never without a glimpse of those easy, common days. And as the sun peered through his shoddy blinds, casting a curious beam across his pillow, highlighting the creases in his fingertips and striping the wrist he raised to its touch, he found he could breathe in its faint, early warmth.
What awaited him didn’t matter, at the end of it. There was always another day. He could trust that much.
“Trust me,” he seemed to be saying to me, but then he did untrustworthy action. Finally, I could say I trusted him – trusted him to deceive me. Then our relationship abruptly halted.