I dislike lies but understand the need to keep secrets. How many secrets have I kept for others over the years? How many have I carried around with me? The truth of the matter is that there are days when I feel as if my entire personality is just that: a secret. People rarely take the time to really listen and look below the surface, and I almost never volunteer useful information. Sometimes I wonder how different I must seem in the minds of each person who knows me, and how well I can I really know anybody else? We only know what we show each other and what we show each other isn’t always truthful. Not to mention that many of us have a tendency to fill in the blanks with our own impressions and interpretations. We fill in the holes of what we do not know about somebody with who we think they are, but not necessarily with accurate information. There are probably a thousand things I don’t know about the closest people in my life and a thousand more that they would never guess about me.
I’ve been accused in the past of being vague, secretive, aloof and even cold. Each time someone calls me of one of these things it stings just a little bit because it tells me is that I haven’t done a good job at expressing who I am or that the person hasn’t really made a effort to see the true me. Because if you were to take a pickax and crack me open you would find that on the inside it was anything but quiet, cold and grey.
I’m lonely tonight. I wish I were better at all of these human relationships, or at least could figure out how to stop caring about it all so much. More than ever I wish for the ear and shoulder of just one person who really knows me. The problem is… I’m no longer sure of who that is.