@doginthecorner || starters for quiet muses || accepting!
"I have nothing left to give"
Water flows through his fingers and he watches the way it splits. Five small streams gutted into existence by his touch alone. That’s how people are in this world. Able to shift and change the patterns of what’s around them simply by existing, by entering the flow of someone else’s life. It’s more noticeable now. With less people to cross your path. Less people to let in to cause that ripple. And, yet, Daryl Dixon--he’s one of those.
They’re talking. Quiet conversation meant to leave the dead on their own should any be out there wandering. Their tents are built for the night. A peripheral of wire and security’s been deftly set up by the pair and he feels safe. Hard not to when you have Daryl sitting next to. He can see why others feel that way. Not that he’s uncapable of handling things for himself. Far from it. But there’s an added sense of getting it that he discovers each time they’re out here on their own of why he’s so deeply trusted with the lives of the ones he cares about. Paul pulls his fingertips out of the water and burrows his brows when that sentence rolls off Daryl’s tongue. He turns to look at him steady, understanding more than he might know.
“Then stop giving so much. At least for a little while. The world won’t cease existing because you need to take care of yourself for once, Daryl.” He puts it to him easy, not meaning to boss him around or give ill advice. “Look at things this way,” he balls both fists up--forearms propped on thighs as he squats down beside him and looks at his upturned wrists, “in one hand..” His left uncurls. “You hold all the love and heart you have for those you call family.” That fist is remade. The opposite uncurls. “And in the other one, you have what you’re keeping for yourself.” And that first is remade.
“That’s a solid grip. Right there. Two hands. Holding on. One hand slips? The other starts to give and slowly but surely? Neither one can hold on forever,” both fists uncurl again and he sits down tucking one boot underneath his bent leg and then the other. Cross-legged he rests his palms down on the inside of his calf muscles. “If you’re hanging on the edge and you feel like you’re starting to come up empty-handed either way? It’s time to breathe for you and just you. We’re the same like that, you know? Being caged up. We love our people. Our family. But sometimes.. That shared air? Those walls? They suffocate. Close in. Then you’re no good to anyone.”
“We should stay out here a little longer...,” pale eyes comb over the thick woods around them, “Just a little..”
