Post by Cascadia on Sept 4, 2008 15:43:35 GMT -5
The moments when everything stops have kept me going over the years. Breaks in life where you can lean back, let out a deep breath that's been in you for much too long, and relax. Yes, it's in these moments I find the strength to take another breath, and face life again.
But the short moments, stolen moments, with him...they are cruel, double edged blades I've learned to grasp along with everything else. And though I know these blades can sting so badly against my flesh, they also bring a smooth, cool relief to me. A bittersweet victory I've tasted time and time again.
In these moments, between running back and forth from Rock to Hard Place, (and paying for gas along the way) time itself seems to stop and it's just him and I, the roller-coaster rush of life's absence leaving everything startlingly clear. I watch frame by frame as I turn, face him. In moments like these the calm before the ever-raging storm, I can see straight into him. Whereas normally I'd have to ask, or look to find his thoughts, here he stands open before me.
He walks forward, dragging, long steps that will never reach me. Nothing like his usual bounce. I steady myself as he nears, until he's close, sometimes pausing to kiss me softly before taking another step and places his head beside mine. I raise my hand to his back, rest the other on his hip, and he lays his head on my shoulder.
He lets out his breath and sags against me. I breathe in and hold him.
I can feel him, see that even as he relaxes, the problems and worries that stab him are still attached, points dug in too deep for him to shake off. They drag at him, the heavy hilts weighing down on him from their piercing points. As he lets go and allows them to pull freely, without his constant holding them, he stops resisting and I fear that he'll be sucked to the ground under their weight. I alone am left to hold him upright. I feel right by doing it, as he sighs against my neck and drapes his arms loosely around me. But it hurts, knowing how much he's carrying constantly, while I only take him up on such occasions.
Of course, I'd never admit to the pain of this, me being too proud, or stubborn perhaps. I know he needs this relaxation. He needs a point to stop and take that next breath. If not for me, I'm not sure he could carry it all the time. Granted, he COULD, but I know it would break him in th end. It would drain the life out of him, the laughter, and leave him bitter and cold.
And so these moments where I get to hold him up, ease his mind of burden, I take each one and remember I love him. Helping him on the rare chance he'll allow himself to be open, it's a small gift to give when he keeps me from breaking as well. Without me, he wouldn't make it. Without him, I wouldn't want to.
But the short moments, stolen moments, with him...they are cruel, double edged blades I've learned to grasp along with everything else. And though I know these blades can sting so badly against my flesh, they also bring a smooth, cool relief to me. A bittersweet victory I've tasted time and time again.
In these moments, between running back and forth from Rock to Hard Place, (and paying for gas along the way) time itself seems to stop and it's just him and I, the roller-coaster rush of life's absence leaving everything startlingly clear. I watch frame by frame as I turn, face him. In moments like these the calm before the ever-raging storm, I can see straight into him. Whereas normally I'd have to ask, or look to find his thoughts, here he stands open before me.
He walks forward, dragging, long steps that will never reach me. Nothing like his usual bounce. I steady myself as he nears, until he's close, sometimes pausing to kiss me softly before taking another step and places his head beside mine. I raise my hand to his back, rest the other on his hip, and he lays his head on my shoulder.
He lets out his breath and sags against me. I breathe in and hold him.
I can feel him, see that even as he relaxes, the problems and worries that stab him are still attached, points dug in too deep for him to shake off. They drag at him, the heavy hilts weighing down on him from their piercing points. As he lets go and allows them to pull freely, without his constant holding them, he stops resisting and I fear that he'll be sucked to the ground under their weight. I alone am left to hold him upright. I feel right by doing it, as he sighs against my neck and drapes his arms loosely around me. But it hurts, knowing how much he's carrying constantly, while I only take him up on such occasions.
Of course, I'd never admit to the pain of this, me being too proud, or stubborn perhaps. I know he needs this relaxation. He needs a point to stop and take that next breath. If not for me, I'm not sure he could carry it all the time. Granted, he COULD, but I know it would break him in th end. It would drain the life out of him, the laughter, and leave him bitter and cold.
And so these moments where I get to hold him up, ease his mind of burden, I take each one and remember I love him. Helping him on the rare chance he'll allow himself to be open, it's a small gift to give when he keeps me from breaking as well. Without me, he wouldn't make it. Without him, I wouldn't want to.