The Fault Line

Don’t make mountains of molehills, they say, without helping you decipher between the two. Your sleep is chased away by the ghosts that haunt you in every disastrous lie every boy in your life has told you. The lies reverberate in the type of clarity only hindsight can afford –a record skipping with wild abandon. It is the feeling of falling that knocks you from a dead sleep. It is a history of building homes on fault lines, and late nights praying the roof isn’t going to fall on your head while the world trembles.

Inevitably, there will be a moment when you feel unwanted. The turned shoulder is the best you can hope to get that night. You can pray that the night doesn’t stretch into a week of loneliness, a month of holes in your chest that keep leaking sadness, a year of thunder clouds hanging over your head. But you just don’t know how long the damn night will last, and your best bet is to hope the walls don’t start shaking.

And throughout, a thought: Maybe this time, it really is just a molehill. Maybe you should stay. Face it and rage against the ghosts keeping you afraid of the night, of deafening silence, of sharing vulnerabilities with another human.

Fault lines aren’t reliable in their destruction, and they have trained you well in how to respond to the slightest shift under your feet. The smallest moment, then, will have you reeling backwards, out, away. The first sign may be the smallest, but it will not be the last– without action, you could be buried in the rubble.