Force on Force

Everyone's heard of this classic paradox. What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. But what happens when an unstoppable force meets an unstoppable force? Who moves? Does one of them give? By how much? Does it spring back? I don't know enough about physics to really use this analogy. A physicist might say they'll slip off each other, take the path of least resistance and push everything that comes along right out of the way. It makes sense. Let's imagine, though, that it's not possible for these two forces, they can only impact and grind up against one another.

That's what they're doing. She believes in things he used to think didn't make sense, she values things he's discarded. His lack of belief is something she'd once only heard with anger and contempt, he values things once alien to her. Yet the two forces meet. They grind against each other more and more as time rushes by. One gives more than the other, springing back violently. The grinding rips away at them, sandpaper shredding the first layer of skin. An ecstasy comes with it, unstoppable, forcing them to a place without conclusions.

She doesn't deserve better than him.

She deserves better from him.

Those are her words. He knows they make sense, but they don't seem to fit. Is it the circumstances or the man? Can he do no better or is he just unwilling to? Either way he sought this, made this glass house for himself. He brushes against its walls, scratching the glass and smashing holes in its panes. He's built it small; at least he can taste the world through the holes he's made. He can even see the concrete bunker he'd built for years. He'd never looked at it from anywhere but inside, not really looked at it. From here he sees the faults, cracks that doomed it to be the crumbling pile it now was. The glass house isn't bad, especially in comparison. He only hadn't realized he was building it, even as his hands moved. He noticed, of course. His nerves told him every time the panes sliced at his hands. He noticed, but never realized what he was building until it had already risen up around him.

He stood with her in the glasshouse, her frame more accustomed to its size. Yet the glass sliced at her, opening old wounds and spilling new blood. He rushed to close them as he could, his unwieldy bulk slowing his process to a crawl. She grinned and dealt with it, the occasional tear staining the ground. Not much of the floor remained dry. Most of them fell as he gazed out the windows. The infrequent sobs called his attention involuntarily, and he'd find new wounds opened, slashed by faults he'd made in the house he'd built. Binding wounds was his specialty. Preventing them, not so much.

When unstoppable forces meet, they create their own arena, binding themselves to a point in space time. Time slows to a crawl in their eyes yet rushes past them. Eventually they'll run out of flesh to grind. One might leave, or die. The energy driving them might run out, cooling supernovas to solid rock; orbiting with one another in comfortable, painless tandem. But how do you provoke such a change?

They don't know, trapped in their glass house; him looking out, her gazing in.