“Does one ever learn to trust again after that trust has been abused and rejected?” She was in one of her post-relationship moods.
“The matter of trust hangs on a knife-edge”, he said, sat squarely on the fence.
“I know that”, she replied, “I have been stabbed, deeply.”
“We live in fields of blades”, he sighed.
“Now you are being pessimist,” she retorted. “I think in the end our choices lead us to these fields you refer to as being filled with blades, or could they be filled roses?”
“Both may cut and scratch you. Many times we sow the seeds of our own crop of blades”, he said. “Others, unfortunately, wander too into these fields, time and again”.
“So we have experiences to avoid revisiting?”
“Sometimes it’s impossible to avoid wandering in,” he said, offering some comfort. “From a distance these fields look beautiful, only once your inside do you realize the swaying, green stalks are really chrome blades, chopping.”
“Then the experience one had is defective as he still needs to learn further lessons. He shall wander into these fields until he learns,” she sighed, despair creeping in.
“It’s not defective; unless you call hope a defect. It’s hope that brings one again to the field.”
With relief that was tangible. “Therefore I am doomed to wander the rough-made footpath and stray back into hurt, cuts and pain. However seeing you start this conversation with pessimism and ending with a flirtation with optimism gives me strength to walk once more.” She was warming to the idea.
“I never started a pessimist, as I have never looked upon this subject with pessimism. Even blades have their uses, but only while they remain sharp.” He responded, as pragmatic as ever.
“The only useful blunt utensil is a spoon,” she replied.
They exchanged glances. He got up and put the kettle on.
Posted in Fiction
, Short Fiction Stories
and tagged Despair