Music: True Strength - John Dreamer ←
It's a strange feeling to have; to know there is a part of your story, your life story, that you will not share. That you will not tell this specific one part. That you know with conviction that nobody will ever know about this but you. Just you.
It's not even a big chunk, just a moment, like a single page in your story that is to be an epic series of books written up with adventures and suprises and wonder.
The page is not written in words; it's a page of painted colors of chaos. You don't even know how to look at it, to understand, to be able to read it out loud.
You don't know how to read this page. Though it is your story.
But it's there. You know it is.
And sometimes you meet with people, someone new, because you are alive and living, and you start to share passages from your book, showing, citing what you have written, and all of a sudden you realize just how easy it would be for you to make a mistake. Mistake of accidentally turn to that page that should not exist, and show them the colors that can't be understood and explain. You will have to explain this page. This chaos. This mess. This mess that is you.
And you think maybe you should just close that book and perhaps not open it at all and pretend that you are not writing any story and maybe, maybe, you do not have a book at all. No story to tell. They don't have to know.
Because the paint will soon seep into the other pages and the covers and the title of the book and all of the book, and it will show. They will know. They will see and they can tell.
They will see that I have a page that I can't look at and I can't read. And they will be able to tell what that paint is. They will understand. Only that I won't.
