Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Excerpts from something this morning while the sun was still much too lazy to rise.

A writer needs his/her secrets, let me tell you.

Writers need the secrets made late at night, kept early in the morning, and observed all throughout the afternoon.

I make a million secrets everyday, I swear. Even if I don't remember them. 


Secrets that are shared in glances. In gestures. As you walk from one part of the day to another, and a stranger does a kind act, or you see someone cry. Secrets are whispered all around us as people interact, even if nothing is spoken. 
I love these secrets.
There's a nakedness to them; a quiet moment of silenced reality blurred beautifully by fleeting seconds that glisten as fast as a drop of water before it drops down, down, down and is gone forever -- maybe someday forgotten, but written in the history of moments in time nonetheless. The smallest moments are written out in time in no less a font than the great moments. 

Secrets. 
They're intimate -- even if no attraction, lust, or desire is mixed in. Sometimes, people are just wonderful because they're people. Because there's a goodness to them. Perhaps you share an underlying characteristic or bond or experience with them without even knowing it. Perhaps you and the person in front of you are thinking the exact same thought -- in that moment, the two of you are that one in a billion
Don't we all secretly wish to be that one in a billion? 

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