Tell me a secret, a private moment, something embarrassing to hear said out loud. I want to hear something inconsequential. I want to know what only you know. I want to know together.
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I love to type. That's not a secret. I like how you can get lost in the muscle memory. I love how you trust your skill and create as quickly as you can think. I love the challenge. When I first learned to type --- and every time I would find myself around an idle keyboard, one that wouldn't record anything if pressed into --- I would type a ghost sentence:
These are the memories that best define a person; these are the facts worth telling, worth sharing, and worth hearing.
Tell me. Share with me. Let me hear.
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For awhile, the sentence stopped there. I knew that I would finish it when it was ready. Maybe I would get to a place where I would say different things each time. Little secrets of hope to myself and the angels who watch what I do.
It wasn't long, however, before I found the sentence complete. It was a surprise to me, like discovering what your own likes and dislikes are. Like playing The Sims and picking a person's life ambition. Someone with control of my actions, monitoring my needs, watching me type ghost words, decided it for me.
 |
| Just for instance. |
Here, I finish that sentence.
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