Dear World,

I'll be with you in a moment. Hang in there.

Friend

I was walking with this friend I had, and we arrived at a crosswalk. He stepped right out into the street as he said, "I have right of way!"
A truck hit him.

The moral of the story is: You may be right, but you're dead.

Freedom

I’m looking through the selection when I spot something that might look good. I turn to ask her opinion.
“Do you think these would look nice on me?”
That probably wasn’t a good idea.
“You’re asking for my honest opinion?”
It wasn’t. I should just end it before it begins. But I can’t. I am my own prisoner, chained to the destiny of the small flame I just ignited. I nod.
“I’d rather if you didn’t wear this sort of style. Why don’t you just stick with wearing conservative colors?”

On the outside I roll my eyes. But on the inside, a silent scream rips through me as the small fire bursts into flames. I didn’t ask your advice on how to run my life! I am old enough to make my own decisions! I can do what I want; I can wear what I want! Stop telling me what to do!

---

I must talk this over. I must hear that I’m right. I turn to you. You always tell me I’m right.
“Tell me she’s being unfair,” I cry. “Tell me I can do what I want. Please, tell me I can do what I want!”
But for the first time, you are against me. “I can’t,” you say. “I’m sorry. The only one who can free you is yourself.”
I am hurt. Disappointed. Can’t you help me? Can’t you take my side? But no, you’re telling me to do the impossible. Worse yet, you’re telling me to hurt. But you are the only person I trust.
I will have to trust you again.

---

Later that evening I approach her. It is impossible. I speak haltingly.
“I asked your opinion earlier… and you gave it willingly. But I rejected it completely… I want to tell you that I sincerely appreciate the advice you gave me… You told me what is best for me, and I should not have been angry. I am sorry for rejecting you outright. I am sorry for becoming angry at you.”

There is no sweat on my brow. Strangely, I feel no emotion. But through the deafening silence that is me, I hear the sound of her sobs. I look up, and the tears are streaming down her face.

I am free at last.

Can You Listen?

I must tell my story
There is something on my mind
A clot in my heart I must clear

It happened yesterday
Its impact on me was intense
I'm afraid recovery will take a while

I am telling you my story.
Can you listen to me?

But you answer my question
You advise and analyze,
“Life's not that bad. If there's a will there's a way.”

But I don’t hear you
I’m a heart, not a brain
Don’t give me advice
Don’t tell me it’s false
I can’t understand

I am trying to tell you my story.
Please listen to me.

Change of pace
You encourage and console me instead,
“Oh, you’ll be fine, I’m sure you’ll pull through.”

But I don’t hear you
It is now, not later
Console me then
When I have conquered my grief

I did not tell you my story.
Why can’t you listen to me?

---

I must tell my story
There is something on my mind
And the clot in my heart is still there

What can you do to soften my pain?
Listen. Please, just listen to me.

Words

Walking words, talking words, coming words, going words. Moving words, grooving words, singing words, ringing words. Words.


My mind was a lounge for them. They were always around, running to and fro, making themselves available when they were needed, and when they weren’t. Here is where they felt at home, bustling about, doing chores, or just sitting around and chatting.

The more of them I had, the more sophisticated I was. So I built more rooms for the new generation, and lounge chairs to welcome those who were moving in. I made beds and rocking chairs for my old timers; those that had been here for a while.

If ever I’d need the slightest help from even one of them, there’d be half a dozen clamoring, vying for my attention, each begging, ‘Use me!’ They would push and struggle against a current of their friends and colleagues, each one dying to be first in line. But I’m not one to discipline; I allowed them their competition. And so, they would all come tumbling out in what could only have been an impressive display of intellect.

Mind you, this didn’t happen once in a while. This was a regular occurrence, minute by minute, perceptive moment by perceptive moment. And as such, I must have been considered one of the most intellectual young men around. One who could discuss a single subject for hours on end, one who could delve into the inner recesses of profundity itself. One whose wellspring of words would never go dry.

Then the journey of my life began. And as I travel along the great highway of change, I find habits and behaviors fall to the wayside, abandoned in the dust of the past. So it is, with every step I take, another word is lost.

By now, I no longer host the multitudes waiting to be deployed. Now my mind is clean. My thoughts are clear. My tongue is calm. My words are few. And life is quiet.

I no longer listen to my own noise. I listen to a grieving heart instead.

I no longer live within me. I now enjoy the simple sounds of tranquility, blossoming everywhere I look.

Try it. The beauty of small may surprise you.