Parts Of A Ship And What It Does

Confidence

I am often asked at these intellectual reveries in which young girls have the secret, where they do not think the boys or any other matter which turn pink cheeks, what was the most beautiful word in the French language. I never managed to meet this question, as it has always been difficult to say my favorite color, or my favorite author. How to choose when the world is at your feet, ready to be collected in the hollow of his hands like water from a source? Yet one of them deserves a special place in the pantheon of words. It's "trust".

What a lovely word that confidence! A word-setting, word jewel. One word brilliant, shimmering, plussoyant. Say it and you immediately feel a touch like a feather angel who touches you in silence. A shudder, a vibration in the most intimate, takes us on a stunning slow waltz. Confidence! it drops back, eyes half-closed, in a rapture of ecstasy close in knowing, yes, for no reason, being convinced that strong arms and tender will catch the flight this languid body abandoned.

Trust defies all rules of science by establishing links perfectly inexplicable, irrational to say everything.

For example, I still wonder how often complete strangers, I know only too bad in the end, and usually nor Eve nor Adam, grant me this blank check to me honored and surprised at once. This, in my face or my eyes, or I do not know what in the sound of my voice, or perhaps all three at times, encourages them to tell me things about the intimate absolute, as if we always knew.

It happens so often, receive confidences, and as I learned to listen and listen again, that's part of me, and without doubt, a virtuous circle perfect sense, trust called I collect all the confiance.Et these secrets like precious objects on which they ask me to watch. Embarrassed, sometimes , but mostly stunned.

the same time, by a singular contradiction, I have little confidence in the value of my own inner revelations, and I always feel that my secrets left unattended. Hence perhaps immoderate taste for writing, through which, from the age of fifteen, in the solitude of the writer, pouring out on paper, little by little, the depths of me even secretly hoping to be read.