I don’t know how many of you read these. Quite frankly I stopped caring a while ago. Sure, I go through the motions, as if I’m begging for the attention I know I won’t get. But why would I, an introvert, yell so loudly, speak so much?
To hide from all of you. Look through my notes, 30 or 40 of them. Just the multitude would shy you away from reading them, never mind the length. If you did take the time, thank you, hopefully they made you think and see that even in the masses, I gave the best of me, at the time.
And my tens of status updates a day; ahh these banes of existence. If you look closely enough you see the truth, buried in the pile, but that’s the idea. All of them are sincere, yes. But they hide me. Think; the more I post, the more likely you are to glean over the ones that speak truth. Because that’s the idea.
The people who update you every few days or so receive your utmost attention, but not me. Which is a good thing. Hopefully even this will be hidden behind the mess I’ve made.
I read once that the best place to hide is in front of the world. No one gives a second glance, because what have you to hide? They already know everything.
However, nobody ever did it. Nobody ever hid in front of the world. Nobody that I knew anyway. So, why not let it be me?
I once buried something, deep in the abyss of my mind. For the hope that I would never have to find it again. Then I needed it, and it was gone. Buried so deep and far away that it had become like everything else, and unrecognizable, even by me. So, it doesn’t matter anymore, the past is meant to be remembered, not dwelled upon.
I’ve only had one real cheerleader, my grandfather, and I barely even got a chance to know him before he was ripped from my life; by demons that haunted him since the death of his son.
My brother and sister are irreplaceable and amazing, but I never wanted them to have to cheer me on. Though I’m afraid I may have forced them into it on more than one occasion. They needed their own support, but I was never very good at it.
I’ve said things to people, that I’m certain if I remember them, then they must too. If I was cruel, no apologies can make up for it. If was overbearing, no distance can absolve it. If I was inattentive, no amount of attentiveness now can cover for it. If I did anything wrong, there is nothing I can say or do, that can make you change your mind about me. But I can ask you to understand that I never meant any of those things. I’m a product of the world that I live in.
I was never very good at anything; except maybe art and singing. And even that was iffy.
Then I started writing, and I was good at it. I knew what I was doing. It was an incredible place to hide. Very far away from everything else.
But it wasn’t unpredictable. Yes, we writers talk about how a story writes itself. Glancing over the headache of sleepless nights and early morning coffee breaks. The hitting your head against the wall when the story stopped flowing. You know, the good stuff. We’re just special in the fact that we keep going. We keep torturing ourselves, because its amazing, it really is. But we crave unpredictability. We love it, that’s why we have friends, people who don’t think like we do, but understand what we’re going through.
I wanted approval from only two people in my life. And I never got it. Even now, if I’m overjoyed, they can plant the seed of doubt and within seconds I’m devastated. My plans lying in shambles at my feet. Just a single “I have faith in you.” could have changed everything. And I couldn’t even get that.
But it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t. Because I’m not living for them, I never was.
Not a single one of you is living for anyone else. No significant other, no child, no parent, no sibling determines who you are, or what you can do.
You can hide like me, or not. From what I’ve seen, hiding brings a great deal of pain, but someone has to live it.