Never share your secrets with these three peopl
Guard Your Truths: The Envious, Untrustworthy, and Indif
Never share your secrets with these three people: the envious who covet your light, the untrustworthy who trade trust for gain, and the indifferent who let your truths slip through careless hands. Secrets are the delicate threads of your soul, woven into the tapestry of your being, fragile yet powerful, holding the weight of your dreams, fears, and unspoken desires. To entrust them to the wrong heart is to scatter pearls before those who cannot see their worth, leaving you exposed, vulnerable, and diminished.
First, beware the envious, those whose hearts burn with a quiet fire, fueled by the glow of your successes, your joys, or even your struggles. Their eyes gleam not with admiration but with a hunger to possess what is yours, to unravel your mysteries and claim them as their own. Envy is a thief cloaked in flattery, whispering words of camaraderie while sharpening its blade. When you share your secrets with the envious, you hand them a map to your innermost chambers, inviting them to plunder what they cannot create themselves. They will twist your truths, reshape your confessions into weapons, and wield them to dim your shine. A secret shared with envy is no longer yours—it becomes a trophy for their discontent, paraded to soothe their own insecurities. Guard your heart against those whose smiles hide resentment, for their loyalty is as fleeting as a shadow in a storm.
Second, steer clear of the untrustworthy, those whose promises are as brittle as dry leaves, crumbling under the slightest pressure. These are the ones who wear trust like a mask, their words smooth and inviting, yet their actions betray a heart swayed by convenience or gain. They are the merchants of secrets, bartering your confidences for favor, power, or a moment’s attention. To them, your vulnerabilities are currency, your whispered truths mere commodities to be traded in the marketplace of gossip or ambition. The untrustworthy do not always act with malice; sometimes, their betrayal is born of weakness, a lack of resolve to honor the sacred bond of trust. But intent matters little when your secrets are spilled, scattered like seeds in the wind, taking root in places you never intended. A single careless word from their lips can unravel the safety you’ve built, exposing your soul to judgment or harm. Test the ground before you plant your secrets, for the untrustworthy offer no shelter, only the illusion of it.
Third, avoid the indifferent, those whose hearts are too distracted, too detached, to cradle your secrets with care. They are not cruel, nor are they scheming; they are simply absent, their minds adrift in their own worlds, their ears deaf to the weight of your words. To share a secret with the indifferent is to cast it into a void, where it lingers unacknowledged, unprotected, and forgotten. They may hear you, but they do not listen; they may nod, but they do not feel. Your truths, so carefully offered, become background noise, easily overlooked or misplaced. The indifferent do not betray with intent, but their negligence is no less dangerous. A secret left in their hands is like a flame entrusted to a child—neither valued nor guarded, it risks sparking a fire that consumes what you hold dear. Seek those who meet your vulnerability with presence, who hold your words as if they were their own, for the indifferent cannot honor what they do not see.
In a world that often demands openness, where vulnerability is praised as courage, it is tempting to lay bare your soul to all who listen. But not every ear is worthy, not every heart equipped to carry the weight of your truths. Secrets are sacred, not because they are shameful, but because they are yours—intimate fragments of your essence, shaped by your journey, your pain, and your triumphs. They deserve sanctuary, a haven built on trust, respect, and mutual care. Choose wisely those with whom you share them, for the wrong hands can turn your treasures into burdens.
So, hold fast to your secrets, and let them rest only in the keeping of those who see you, who value you, and who guard your trust as fiercely as their own. The envious will always seek to steal your light, the untrustworthy will trade your truths for their gain, and the indifferent will let your heart slip through their fingers. But you, keeper of your own mysteries, have the power to protect them. Be discerning, be deliberate, and let your secrets bloom only in the safety of those who cherish their fragility and honor their strength.”
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The Boy Who Chased the Wind
In the small village of Eldergrove, nestled between rolling hills and whispering forests, lived a boy named Elian. He was twelve, with wild brown hair and eyes that gleamed like polished river stones. Elian was known for his restless spirit, always running through fields, climbing trees, or staring at the sky as if it held secrets only he could decipher. But what set Elian apart was his fascination with the wind. To him, it wasn’t just air moving through the world—it was alive, a mischievous spirit that danced through the village, rustling leaves, teasing kites, and slipping through his fingers whenever he reached for it. One autumn evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in hues of orange and violet, Elian sat on the hill overlooking Eldergrove. The wind was strong that night, tugging at his clothes and singing in his ears. “Where do you go?” he whispered, as if the wind might answer. His grandmother, Old Mara, had told him stories of the wind’s origins—tales of a great spirit named Zephyr, who roamed the world, carrying dreams, secrets, and forgotten songs. Elian didn’t know if the stories were true, but he felt the wind’s pull in his bones, like a call to adventure. That night, Elian made a decision. He would chase the wind, follow it wherever it led, and discover its secrets. He packed a small satchel with bread, a waterskin, and a worn cloak, then slipped out of his house under the cover of darkness. The village was quiet, save for the wind’s restless hum. Elian closed his eyes, feeling the breeze brush his face, and ran in the direction it seemed to beckon—toward the Whispering Forest. The forest was dense, its trees ancient and gnarled, their branches swaying as the wind wove through them. Elian’s heart raced, but he pressed on, following the wind’s fleeting whispers. Sometimes it seemed to guide him, swirling around him in playful gusts; other times, it vanished, leaving him alone in the dark. Hours passed, and the forest grew thicker, the air colder. Doubt crept into Elian’s mind. What if the wind was just air, nothing more? What if he was chasing a childish dream? As dawn broke, painting the sky in soft pinks, Elian stumbled into a clearing. In its center stood a tree unlike any he’d seen—tall, silver-barked, with leaves that shimmered like glass. The wind swirled around it, faster and stronger, as if drawn to the tree. Elian approached, his breath catching. Carved into the trunk was a symbol: a spiral, like a gust of wind frozen in time. He reached out, and the moment his fingers touched the bark, the wind roared, lifting leaves and dirt into a spiraling vortex. From the vortex stepped a figure—a being made of air and light, with eyes like storm clouds and a voice that hummed like a distant gale. “Why do you chase me, child?” it asked. Elian’s voice trembled, but he stood tall. “I want to know you. My grandmother said you’re Zephyr, the spirit of the wind. I want to know where you go, what you see.” The figure tilted its head, its form shifting like smoke. “I am Zephyr, and I am the breath of the world. I carry the hopes of the weary, the songs of the lost, the dreams of those who dare. But to chase me is to chase the unknown. Are you ready for what lies beyond?” Elian nodded, his heart pounding. Zephyr extended a hand, and the wind enveloped him, lifting him into the air. The world blurred, and suddenly, Elian was soaring. He saw mountains capped with snow, oceans that stretched to the horizon, cities of stone and glass, and deserts where the sand sang under the wind’s touch. He heard voices—laughter, cries, prayers—carried on the breeze from every corner of the earth. The wind was not just movement; it was connection, tying the world together in an endless dance. But the journey wasn’t gentle. The wind grew fierce, hurling Elian through storms where lightning cracked and rain stung his skin. He clung to Zephyr’s presence, afraid but exhilarated. “Why is it so hard?” he shouted over the tempest. “To know the wind is to know life,” Zephyr replied. “It is joy and sorrow, calm and chaos. You cannot have one without the other.” At last, the wind softened, and Elian found himself back in the clearing, standing before the silver tree. His clothes were tattered, his face streaked with dirt, but his eyes burned with a new light. Zephyr hovered before him, its form fading. “You have seen my heart, Elian. What will you do now?” Elian thought of Eldergrove, of his grandmother’s stories, of the village children who laughed at his dreams. He realized the wind wasn’t something to catch—it was something to share. “I’ll tell them,” he said. “I’ll tell everyone what you showed me. The world, the voices, the dreams. They need to know.” Zephyr’s eyes softened. “Then you are no longer a boy who chases the wind. You are its messenger.” With a final gust, Zephyr vanished, and the wind stilled. Elian returned to Eldergrove, his satchel empty but his heart full. The villagers were stunned to see him, for he’d been gone three days, though to him it felt like lifetimes. He told his story by the fire, his words painting pictures of distant lands and forgotten songs. Some laughed, calling it a child’s fancy, but others listened, their eyes wide with wonder. Old Mara smiled, her wrinkled hands clasping his. “You’ve found the wind’s truth,” she whispered. Years passed, and Elian grew into a man, but he never stopped sharing the wind’s stories. He became a wanderer, traveling from village to village, telling tales of the world’s beauty and pain, its dreams and struggles. Children followed him, their laughter mingling with the breeze, and elders nodded, sensing the truth in his words. The wind, he taught them, was more than air—it was the pulse of life, carrying the hopes of all who lived. And sometimes, when Elian stood alone on a hill, the wind would brush his face, gentle as a friend. He’d close his eyes and smile, knowing Zephyr was listening, carrying his stories to the farthest corners of the earth.
By Rise & Inspire9 months ago in Motivation
Friendship with Books
Arslan and Rehan were very close friends. They studied in the same class and lived in the same neighborhood, which made their friendship even stronger. Despite being similar in age and environment, their interests were quite different. Rehan had a deep love for reading. He was not limited to his textbooks alone; instead, he eagerly read all kinds of books, including storybooks, history, general knowledge, and books full of interesting events. For Rehan, books were not just a habit—they were a way of life.
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