tell me about it

I have the sudden romantic notion of logging onto my blog and unburdening my heart to all who read it.

The notion excites me. I don’t want to keep all my secrets and anguish to myself anymore. I click on the little icon. “New Post”. My fingers hover over the keys and I prepare to bare myself to the world.

I hesitate.

My fingers twitch, but don’t touch the keyboard. They hang, arrested, as my words do - lingering in the air and dissipating with my childish enthusiasm.

I can’t say that, I think, nor that either. And not that. Someone might read it. Someone will. I can’t tell people that. That’s just…embarrassing. It’s not right.

And so I sit here, speechless, and realize that perhaps my life is not as shallow as I’d like to think, that I cannot unveil my inner self with a paltry paragraph on a blog. That I have secrets I cannot bear to share.

We like to think we’re such public people, but in reality we aren’t. We wear layer upon layer, masks and deceit and outward appearances. Lobster shells to protect the tiny disgusting naked pink worm that squirms at the heart of each of us.

And nobody but yourself and God to know.