[He gives it a minute or two, letting Steinbeck find his pace and adjusting his own longer stride to match up, hands kept tucked into his pockets.
When the sounds of the party start to fade, he'll start to speak again. His gaze stays away, watching the setting if the evening in front of them, the far shore with the dull crash of waves against the low wailing of the fall wind.]
It gets a little exhausting, to keep chosing kindness.
...
You say you want people to know you like that, but you also don't seem all that happy keeping a real bitter side of you down.
Does it just feel impossible, maybe? To think someone will want to know or understand you just exactly the way you are, without wishing you could be something else?
no subject
When the sounds of the party start to fade, he'll start to speak again. His gaze stays away, watching the setting if the evening in front of them, the far shore with the dull crash of waves against the low wailing of the fall wind.]
It gets a little exhausting, to keep chosing kindness.
...
You say you want people to know you like that, but you also don't seem all that happy keeping a real bitter side of you down.
Does it just feel impossible, maybe? To think someone will want to know or understand you just exactly the way you are, without wishing you could be something else?