(no subject)
I always loved finding and digging through old journals. People let go of filters when they write, and there is so much to discover. More honesty than you could ever hope to find, save for those rare late nights after a small amount of liquor. Or perhaps an evening of watching old movies, or running out into a torrential downpour, laughing at the world and all of the sensations, the rain seeping into hair and clothes and eyes. Or perhaps we drove a hundred miles just to see a lightning bolt. The soul baring talks always happen in dimly light rooms, with candles. I think because we still need protection. Our minds are precious. Don't look too closely, lest we hide from each others' gazes.
What a shame that my trust was ripped from me. I pride myself on having a good instinctive judge of character, with the occasional exception. But that last exception, he left me with a nagging voice in my head. Tiny. I say to myself: "Self, this here is a good person. You can trust this person."
But you trusted him.
What a shame that my trust was ripped from me. I pride myself on having a good instinctive judge of character, with the occasional exception. But that last exception, he left me with a nagging voice in my head. Tiny. I say to myself: "Self, this here is a good person. You can trust this person."
But you trusted him.