This is going to run long, even for me. Label it poetry, or prose, or fiction, or whatever. I felt it, and I hope you do too.
Do Nothing.
The things they don't want to tell you
are the things you should be listening for, little man. You'll never
spend a day in the sun unless you know where it leaves shadows, and
the human heart is a labyrinth, even to its owners. There are
crevasses deeper than space, and they are usually invisible until you
are standing over a sudden drop. She doesn't want to tell you about
the gentleman callers, or the credit card with your name on it, until
it is far too late for you to do anything.
And what you must do is nothing.
What you can do, what you must do, is
find a moment, maybe more, each day, to still your breathing, unwind
the turbines that grind in each ear because you have been goaded unto
such unnatural speeds and lost your rhythm...and listen. Do nothing
but listen. Do nothing but look at her eyes, and watch the pupils.
They will dilate in time with her breath under a lot of
circumstances, and if she catches it for a second, stalls that one
small eternity with her eyes a bit too wide or too far out of
alignment with yours, then there is something behind her face you
need to know.
The only way to find out its name is to make it tell
you.
Secrets are a currency, and most people
are incredibly stingy. You'll have to let the unintended truth walk
halfway out of her mouth, then slip the hook in under it before she
can recover. Otherwise, you have to wait. That wouldn't be such
torture if you didn't already know she had something to say, some ash
to spit in your mouth when your smile opens to laugh.
And what you must do, again, is
nothing.
Violence is the last resort of the
frustrated mind; it's what people without words, without brains,
without control are left with. That's not you. It's one thing to have
a skill set; it's another for it to replace all forms of
communication. Do not let them take your words from you. Do not raise
your hand in anger, against man, beast, or property. Once you are
known for a lack of control, everyone owns you except yourself. Hands
down, eyes and ears open.
Pay attention. Most of the answers you
need are between breaths, between words, in between the typos and
just under the context. You will hear them shuffling around in the
hyperbole; you will see them shamble at the back of her eyes on a
sunny day, when she realizes the fleeting nature of joy and her
contributions thereto.
But first, you must do nothing.
The good secrets are in her too; they
are hidden in touch, in the silences when you are slouched together
and your breathing synchronizes. There are good secrets, too, in
everyone. Life would be worthless and pathetic if it only rained all
the time. The good secrets will be your reason for tolerating the bad
ones, or their lack will be why you find a new hidden library in
someone else.
Love will kill you a thousand times, if you are
lucky. But between those deaths, you will live more than anyone ever.
