Fault.

I'm going to tell you a story.
This story is about a friend who means absolutely no harm, but that's just the problem with meaning no harm. That even though you don't mean to cause pain, you do.
That's the fault in our unawareness, that by being unaware, you have just as much capability to hurt someone.

So, this friend. He is not unlike all of us. He say's things that are nice, and encouraging, and lovely.
And I'm honestly being too hard on this poor guy, because like I said, he MEANS no harm. And the truth of the matter is that it isn't all about me and if he cares less than I deem he should about listening to me then hell, he has every right to care whatever amount he wishes. But, I digress.

There came a moment, on a beautiful patio, in the middle of a beautiful day. Sun beaming in through  a screen protected glass, and for a moment I let a wall of mine down and began to share a story with him. A story that in hindsight is a moment that will forever be suspended in time. A moment that I hope to nor do I desire to ever forget, and there I was.
On this patio.
Allowing my very recently cemented brick wall to loosen, to crack, and allow brick and stone to become dust in the light of a moment of trust.
The look in his eyes towards me was nothing short of refreshing.
There was intrigue, there was care, there was eye-contact for crying out loud.

Then, just as said bricks are bursting into dust, just as the mischievous child atop the hill is peeking over the brick wall, notices a loose one and ever so slightly begins to push away one little brick....
Just as I am allowing the setting of my story to collide with what was happening in my heart in that exact moment...
It's as if the mischievous child is caught from afar by his mom calling him, questioning his actions, knowing his intentions well enough to know he is going to start tearing this brick wall down.
She calls him by name. He pulls his stiffened finger away from the brick, leaving it teetering back into place. No dust. Just barely a trace that the strength of the wall was weakened. The child is gone. The wall in tact.
So it goes, my well-intentioned friend has lost any sort of interest in my story. But not just my story, he has lost interest in my heart and why this story means so much to me.

No more intrigue, no more care, no more eye-contact, but immediate attention to whatever thing is stirring in his mind in that exact moment. Middle of my sentence, mind you. 

How can I expect him, or anyone for that matter to know that? To know there is a metaphorical wall around my heart with each story I share? How can I expect him to have the same care for that delicate moment or the same understanding of why it is in fact so precious to me.

That is the fault in our unawareness.
He knows not about the brick wall, the child desiring for it to fall down, or the delicate nature of that memory to me. I cannot, nor will I, expect him to hold it with such care as I do.
The fault is this, that we, perhaps maybe just I, care too much about these things. They are gifts, special delicate moments to be handled with care by the owner of them, questioning who is careful enough to handle them, too.

I am not unlike this friend, nor are you. There is no goal in this, no frustration to vent about, but simply observation. No resolution, just fact.
A delicate moment, protected by a wall, tampered with by a child, then left alone to do what it only knows how to do: protect or fall.