Confessions Part III

This is a continuation of the random stream of mind that I started last night (well, technically this morning very very early). I think my mind is just keeping time with the pain I am feeling - a sort of dull, aching throb really. Makes me ponder....

I find that I am made of secrets. I have accumulated so many things that I can not or will not share with others. There are secrets I do not share because of how they make me feel, there are secrets I do not share because I think few people will truly understand, and there are those secrets that are not secrets as such, I just need someone to more pointedly ask me before I tell all. Or even a little. And I can't remember when or why I became this repository of my life. I used to marvel at how much more open I had become, having moved here and needing to make friends again. I was letting people in to my life and telling them things that I would never have shared before. But I find that my circle has closed - perhaps in the way it is meant to be - and there are only a few people I can say truly know me well. And I love them for knowing me, even if I don't know them. But there are so many times I have been talking to others, willing them to ask the right question, wanting to confess, wanting to have a serious conversation where I get to lay all (or at least most ) of my cards out on the table, and I can't get there. I seem to draw back my hand and throw in my hand right when I reach the opportunity. Maybe I am afraid that my secrets are secrets for good reason. That what I keep hidden should be kept hidden to not alter the balance and design somehow.

I find myself with more stories. I always do things, I always have wild adventures, and I have always had stories (everyone knows the Halloween incident) but I find I am all stories now. I can't speak without talking about incidents, fleeting moments in my life, instead of the things that matter - how I feel, how I felt - and I find that everyone thinks they know me, that I am everyone's intimate acquittance, until it gets pointed out to them that they know me naught. That in fact, I am still this unknown enigma and to know me, to understand me, is to ask me to go beyond the stories, to pierce the veil, and start to infer what is meant, instead of listening to what is said.

My persona is my mask. This brash, young thing with a wild streak and a flirtatious side? Nothing more than pretend. People make of me what they will - they think I truly am the person I claim to be. And perhaps a part of me is. But there is another part that does not want what I seem to want. There is a side of me that keeps me in check, that pulls me back, that makes me flirt and then holds back the ultimate prize. Because in the end, I am searching for something I can not find in any place that I am looking. I am searching for something I had and lost, but wondering if I am still holding on to without realizing. I don't do guilt or regret but I do know that there is a brink I am standing close to an edge and this part of me prevents me from tottering over and making the most of the part I play