In Times of Trouble . . .

People often wonder why I keep the stories of my life, the secrets of my life so close, so guarded, so inaccessible to even those closest to me, but I don’t really, I share them here because I have a shroud, a place to unleash my demons, cry my pain and love and lust without attachment, without the expectation of more from me, more of me.

I often wonder why people believe they deserve more than I’m willing to give in a particular moment, just because I don’t tell you today doesn’t mean I won’t tell you tomorrow, it doesn’t mean I never will but maybe I won’t. I’m entitled to all of me, and love or no love, you are entitled only to the parts I’m willing to give up, give away, share, nothing more is guaranteed or granted because your feelings run deep and complete.

I think the answer is simple, in this day people feel they are entitled to the instantaneous answers, the always answers, the automatic solutions, the quick fix, unfathomable knowledge, and the unquestionable entitlement that once faded as childhood was left behind. The Internet offers us all up on a platter until we learn the art of phantom and we must, because the walls of privacy are no longer respected or even considered.

There are those with whom I would share most anything, friends who are close to my heart though far away, those whose struggles in life eclipse my own and for whom I hold nothing but the tenderest of thoughts, those people that find unmatched joy in the promise of a piano. I adore their simple joy, their want of nothing more than serenity, love, whimsy and my friendship. There are others with whom I share a cursory yet complete glance of who I am because they don’t understand the simple, they don’t understand that this world, that I, am not simply a book to be opened and closed, read and rehashed just because they want it to be.

Mining for the details of my life won’t keep you in my esteem, won’t let me trust you and in the end, it will keep me from loving you.

. . . let it be.