Slipping Away

Restlessness has taken over me. But it isn't my usual restlessness; that perpetual travel bug that resides in my soul and seems to bite on a regular basis - no, this is not that sort of restlessness at all. It is more of an agitation. And when it overcomes me, I write. So here I am - jotting down my views and feelings and digging up and unearthing residual thoughts and emotions.

So where does this agitation come from? Like the beginnings of most fairy tales and stories of interest – it all goes back to a boy. The story is long and twisted, would take several postings to catch the past up to the present, and really is another story all together. But the gist of it is this; boy meets girl, girl falls, boy falls and then BAM boy needs space.

Call it a gut feeling, call it intuition, call it a sneaking suspicion, call what you may, but I knew something had to give, I just didn't know it would be me. The past few days, I could feel him slipping. Like I had just crushed an hourglass in my hands and the sands could not be contained as every granule, everything we had created with and within each other was falling through the cracks between my fingers. And I couldn’t clutch it, nor did I want to. So I sat there watching the mound of sand grow as it passed through my helpless hands and land upon the floor.

And when we finally talked, my intuition was confirmed. It was true; he was slipping away, fading out in exchange for space. I understand space – I crave it so much myself. But this was the first time I had been asked to give space and that is what has shaken me. In some way, I felt the door to this boy close; actually slam right in front of me. And I stood there with the sting and gut-wrenching ache rooted in the pit of my belly. I felt my heart crack once more.

My first instinct was to dump all the sand remaining in my hand onto the floor and walk away myself. I had done it before and doing it again would be the proverbial cake walk. But there was something that prevented me from doing so; something that prevented me turning my back and walking lackadaisically away from him.

Instead I clasped my hands around whatever sand remained in my hand and carefully poured it in another container for safekeeping. The mess on the floor was another story all together, and that would be for him to decide. Do I leave it? Sweep it away and out with the rest of the rubbish? Or do we both get on our hands and knees and collect every granule bit by bit together?

The answer still lies within him.