I have to admit, I’m a thief of sorts. But not the kind you’d think. I don’t steal jewels, money, or prized possessions. Nothing like that. The things I steal are far more precious. These things that cannot be held. I steal the fragile fleeting things that are taken for granted and seldom kept hidden or under lock and key.
Moments.
Precious moments.
I can be found on park benches, in far corners of rooms, or in hallways, watching the world around me in eternal wonderment. I steal glances, facial expressions, subconscious hand gestures, looks of love and fear. I steal the moments that hang amidst human interaction in the spaces between beings and heartbeats. Spaces where people bare souls and raw emotions make homes.
Human connection.
These are moments that I hold to be some of the purest we have in life. Moments so pure that, unless you’re looking for them, feeling them, slip by unnoticed among expended breaths of air.
As I watch, I wonder. I build stories in my head about the moments I steal and the people I steal them from. Why certain moments happen. Why some don’t. I am forever amazed at these moments. Both the simplest and the most complex of things. Moments so simple that few take notice, and things so complex that these moments weave themselves seamlessly into the fabric of life.
For every moment stolen, a sensation of connection overcomes me. A knowing feeling that, despite all that is wrong with this world, we’re all in this together.
And life goes on.