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At the root of it all was a gnawing absence, a dark hollow within him from which something had been removed, something so critical to his composition he had grown to fear he might die if he didn’t recover it.
As he sank into sleep, he allowed himself the thought of a smile but did not allow it to reach his mouth. Even if he’d wanted to, he could not remember how.
I found his fear humanized him in a way his love never could, maybe because there was no doubting its legitimacy.
Perhaps this thing is not Restless. Perhaps it has been resting all along and the woods have resurrected it to make me pay for my desecration of this sacred place.
I wait, but there are no more words coming. Perhaps that is why he doesn’t speak, because it is impossible for most people to speak without deception. A mute man can never be called a liar. But it also deprives us of the truth if there is a truth to be had.
Next to me is a beautiful woman who has and maybe never will believe that she is a wonderful person because she will spend her life courting people and situations designed to hurt her.
