There was always such a bad atmosphere in the office. People would whisper but would fall silent when she walked past. There was no transparency about issues in the office but people wanted it that way. They wanted to keep secrets as they would indicate that they had some special knowledge.
He didn’t like the attitude in the office. People whispering then stopping when they saw him walk by. He wanted transparency in the way the work was organized but then he learned that no one else wanted that. Their work depended on certain people know certain things and if there were transparency, there could be no more secrets and no one could claim some new idea as their own.
The truth of the matter is I haven’t written on here for a long time. I forgot how much fun it is. And I would like to do it again and keep going this time. How is that for transparency?
In Mabel’s kitchen, cooking wasn’t merely about flavors. It was an open secret, shared wisdom. She danced around the stove, ingredients spilling into the pot, her recipes blending with laughter—honesty served on a platter.
Truth’s like moonshine, clear, potent, distilled from raw life. Most avoid it, water it down. Not him. He savored its harsh burn, its bare honesty. It left him numb, yet more alive than ever.
Ponder this, a fishbowl, a glass universe all its own. Fish, none the wiser, act unabashed, for glass reveals all. Aren’t we, though, in our grand human theater, also in a fishbowl of cosmic jest?
Just a thin lace curtain divides here and there, now and then. One can peek, yes, but to lift it—to immerse in the essence of otherness—that takes courage. The veil, dear reader, dares us to dare.
There was always such a bad atmosphere in the office. People would whisper but would fall silent when she walked past. There was no transparency about issues in the office but people wanted it that way. They wanted to keep secrets as they would indicate that they had some special knowledge.
He didn’t like the attitude in the office. People whispering then stopping when they saw him walk by. He wanted transparency in the way the work was organized but then he learned that no one else wanted that. Their work depended on certain people know certain things and if there were transparency, there could be no more secrets and no one could claim some new idea as their own.
The truth of the matter is I haven’t written on here for a long time. I forgot how much fun it is. And I would like to do it again and keep going this time. How is that for transparency?
In Mabel’s kitchen, cooking wasn’t merely about flavors. It was an open secret, shared wisdom. She danced around the stove, ingredients spilling into the pot, her recipes blending with laughter—honesty served on a platter.
Truth’s like moonshine, clear, potent, distilled from raw life. Most avoid it, water it down. Not him. He savored its harsh burn, its bare honesty. It left him numb, yet more alive than ever.
Ponder this, a fishbowl, a glass universe all its own. Fish, none the wiser, act unabashed, for glass reveals all. Aren’t we, though, in our grand human theater, also in a fishbowl of cosmic jest?
Just a thin lace curtain divides here and there, now and then. One can peek, yes, but to lift it—to immerse in the essence of otherness—that takes courage. The veil, dear reader, dares us to dare.