A Stolen Moment

I stole a moment only to not know what to do with it. I can sit in silence and admire it as one admires a painting of fruit. I can fill it, as I would a vase or a box, with something physical and hold onto the thrill of the act of saving for a time very soon when I have time for nothing of the sort. I can use it as an opportunity to develop an idea or a concept that could blossom into something marvelous. I could read. I could write. I could waste it in front of the TV, where it filters away like water through a strainer, leaving me only the imperfections as I move on to the next large thing in my path.

I am in-between. An appointment and a rehearsal. A paper and a production. A departure and an arrival.

And I have time to breathe for this one stolen moment.

And all I can think of is how deafening silence is after sound, how guilty I feel for sitting down, and what to do that will not waste this moment I have deftly purloined from the American Dream. And how as soon as I make up my mind, it is time to leave again.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.