I’m really not who you think I am.
I give points to those, in my past, who guess bits and pieces of me correctly. You’ve all tried so hard to be right that it doesn’t seem fair not to reward that effort with a bonus peek behind the curtain, as an “atta boy” for playing the game.
And it’s not that I purposely deceived you about who I am. I haven’t. It’s just that, after so many years of living my life, day to day, I really don’t think about sharing every detail of it with you. Not because I’m keeping things from you, but because, after living it all the first time, I just don’t think of it as interesting.
It wasn’t interesting to me.
Or to anyone else who lived it with me.
Because I’ve lived every day up till now, all those days before you had any thoughts of me, as days of necessity, not serendipity. My nose grew more comfortable with the grindstone than it ever was with the stars. And my existence has, for the most part, been for others who depended on me, and not my own amusement. At this point, I don’t have a frivolous bone in my body.
Or they’ve all been broken.
Therefore, no matter what you may think you know about me, what you really know about me is what you and I discover, together. I’ve kept my life compartmentalized, mostly for my own safety. At least that’s what I kept telling myself, over and over, since the day my heart began to crumble. First, I built a wall. Then another, then two more, and before I knew what I was doing, I had built so many rooms inside me that I had one for every thought. One for every feeling. Safe and unsafe. For sharing or hiding. Each one a closed space, until I decide that you are safe to me. But no one gets a key to the whole place. Not unless we go there together.
Only if you are safe.
Are you safe?
© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday