“Life’s too short to be mysterious. Be wildly obsessed with the things and people you love.”
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I’m a morning person. I slept in today—but none of us are perfect, even at what it is we believe we are. Still, I like waking early before the sun is up—reading, thinking, and writing before anyone else in the house first stirs; drinking coffee as colors of sun first show, dimness and shadow brightening full to light and crest of horizon’s bound—an almost day before the day that belongs to mind and thought and dreams and what of them I can catch and save well enough to say and put to page (or screen).
I like seeing my family happy, times and moments that we share: sports in the yard, pews at mass, conversations, listenings, when they go out of their way to share something with me—a food, a song, anything they believe I might enjoy and share because they know, should I find the same and think of them, I would do the same.
I like deep conversations (thought this means something different to everyone and therefore rare).
I don’t have them often.
I’m often silent.
When I feel I’m going through life motions—habit without meaning—I tune out and go into my mind, find meaning and world in thoughts that seems absent in pattern of imminent.
I am often in my dreams.
Writing is my favorite hobby—passion. Sometimes simple, sometimes guilty—I enjoy it in all of its dimensions. Writing is where I hold the conversations and live experiences of life I otherwise likely never will in flesh but do—in different degrees and ways—by allowing myself in greater way to sense and see whatever it is that is in me that through time and mind and word I further and truer raise out from my private self.
Then, when I put it down, there is chance that I am found, chance that I am learned and known and even enjoyed by others for the thoughts and art I share. Writing is means for an introvert to express in extroversion—a self-conversation, which to me is what writing mostly is, shared for others to see; written speakings unlikely to have ever been shared in small-talk words out of the blue.
Life’s too short to be mysterious, and so I write—wildly obsessed with a passion I love and offer in share to those for whom I feel the same.
And, as conversation I would otherwise never have, less mysterious—writing—I ask, “What about you?”