I feel like I’ve dwelled on this for years on end; but does it ever strike you that you aren’t as open as the books you call friends? Me myself, I’m surrounded by friends who are open books with millions of word-mesh problems they’ve cultivated over the years. I don’t mind this attribute; if anything I welcome it. However my own mind cannot fathom the choice of being open of my deepest feelings.
Reserved could be a term for it, but to stay away from labeling let’s just talk about it. I’m found in a constant battle of whether exposing my pages in the book of my thoughts is a brilliant idea, or if I should stay on my solemn bookshelf.
Often there are two reasons why my book collects dust; one is because I’m afraid if I truly let all my pages be read that I’d sit alone on my dusty shelf, and second I’ve truly let myself label many of my chapters as “weak”, and I find it demeaning to myself to share. As someone who loves to be strong for others, it rattles me to think that when someone reads the lines on my pages that they’ll no longer show me theirs; they’ll feel bad for having read my book, and don’t wish to put weight on my shelf with theirs.
So here I sit on a seesaw of a shelf; one end is tipping towards having my book lay under a mound of dust, and the other is tipping towards letting all the letters pour out. I suppose I’ll let the weight of myself, instead of others, decide which way it flows.