Shall we
(not in the sense of "Let's do," but rather in the sense of "Is
this what will happen?") go to our graves with our sweetest thoughts, our deepest
feelings, our hopes and aspirations left unspoken, unwritten, unknown by anyone
outside ourselves? I believe my husband did. I believe I will.
Yes, I have blogs,
and I post to them. But much of what I write there is superficial. I have kept
a journal sporadically through the years and have filled little note pads with
whatever came to mind. Even so it is not
"an hundredth part." And sometimes not even the real part.
And who on
this earth will, not shall, ever read it? No, an hundredth part or not, I do
not see all that I have written being read. That is why we write, isn't it? And,
trust me, no one is listening.
Besides, and
here is a contradiction, I have never said or written what is in the deepest
part of myself. Never written those secret thoughts or confessed those secret
deeds. I write what is on my mind, or what comes into my mind. With limits.
Perhaps it is self-censorship or simply good judgment. Whichever, it's a fact
that there are self-imposed limits.
I believe we
want to be known--not by everyone--by those few people we love and trust. I do
not know if I speak here for others or for myself alone when I say we want to
be known, but that has long been my belief. Oh, how could I forget? I know
people who will tell everything to anyone and leave nothing out. I am not one
of those.
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