Things recorded in a little black book...

...are usually secrets.

Not mine.

I sit down in a cafe, order a medium mocha, double shot of espresso. I pull out the little black book from my back pocket, and start writing into it with the black pen in my pocket. Scribbling away, I look around, seeing if anyone is looking at me, trying to figure out what I'm writing down. Perhaps doing this in a relatively crowded cafe wasn't the brightest of ideas, but at this point, I don't mind. The looking around feels almost obligatory, even if what I'm writing down isn't some secret worth 80 billion dollars, or what not.

A friend of mine walks into the same cafe, recognizes me, and comes to sit down next to me. As she is sitting down, I coincidentally finish what I was scratching into the book, and put it back into my backpocket. She glances at me, and after ordering her coffee, asks me, "What do you write in that thing?" "Reflections, thoughts, prayers." I reply almost immediately, sipping my mocha.

The more I think about it, I realize that even my answer to her was strangely secretive for something that was completely and utterly truthful. Ironically, none of the three kinds of things that I told her, are actually secretive. My reflections are usually applied to what I do, and seen in how I act. My thoughts are shared with those who have the ear to listen to them, and those close enough to know what kinds of things I think about. My prayers are heard and answered by the Lord, and there's nothing secretive or shameful about them to hide.

My friend gets her coffee, and simply responds with a "Ok, cool." She follows up with the question, "Are you feeling okay? Anything we need to talk about?" I look from the window view outside back to her. "I'm alright. Nothing in particular that's bothering me. What's up?" We sit there, and talk pleasantly over coffee.

Things recorded in a little black book are usually secrets.

Not mine.