Do Nothing (A Letter To My Sons.)

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.