Pretentious Fiction

I couldn't see the setting sun from the other side of the trees, but it was, indeed, setting as evidenced by the gradually shifting color of the sky, warming before cooling again and then fading to black. From where I sat, alone on a splintered wooden bench, I imagined I was feeling everything that could be felt. But it was a lie. I felt nothing. The longer I sat, the darker the world became, the more I wondered if it was real, this new idea...that trust is never absolute. How can it be when it is merely a human construct and humans are inherently fallible? Trust, it seems, was made to be broken. And these nebulous "feelings" we all talk about were apparently only made to be hurt.