WORD THIEF

By Florencia Rodriguez Steube

They say I’m a thief. They say I’m dangerous, that I’m a criminal and need to be arrested as soon as possible. But I don’t think I’m breaking any laws. At least, I don’t think I’m breaking any reasonable laws. The only thing I have ever stolen is hope, and I always gave it away as soon as I stole it.

It’s really the government that’s dangerous. They stole the words from the people years ago, along with the music, the art, and anything that might offer them happiness, or even just relief from the constant monotone of life here, even if just for a moment.

Luckily, there are people like me. I only steal words, words of hope. Others steal music, a simple melody from long ago, or art, even if they are just a child’s scribbles. Some of those in the Department of Environmental Control, who make sure to regulate every single aspect of life until it is completely neutral in every way, are a part of our network. Deep in the shadows, words are whispered in an ear, a tune is quietly whistled, a slip of paper is handed over. Like this, they pass from person to person, from life to life. I find people who need to hear these words, and I pass around slivers of hope.

Nothing is ever charged: happiness should belong to everyone; we are not the government. It is not much, but every day, we reach more people. It is a beginning, not a forever, but a quiet promise of change. But for now, we must rely on whispers of happiness, ghosts that must one day come alive and dance again.