Something in the Way She Moves

You think you know me well: but you don't know me

Just because you read whatever is written on my blogs, does not mean you know me. No one in my life can truly say they know everything about me, and it’s a safe bet that no one ever will. Not my parents, not my daughter, no one.

I will censor myself to a certain extent, but I am not going to completely, because of what certain people may find. Why should I have to hide and be afraid of what other’s think? That isn’t who I am anymore.

I do not usually speak one on one with whatever is bothering me. I write it down. That’s the way it has been since I truly started keeping a journal, at the ripe old age of ten.

Almost my whole life is kept in a box somewhere. Soon I will have to take out a safe deposit box in a bank; the best place to keep them safe and away from harm or prying eyes.

My paper journals are for no one’s eyes but my own.

You read snippets of my life, but do not ever assume you know me simply from what you have perused. I am not my blogs, I am not this article, I am not the words contained therein, I am not any one thing. The minute anyone assumes that I am I know once and for all that they will never understand me. I am not your compact luggage; I don’t slide easily into the overhead compartment.

Maybe it is easy to piece together an image of what you assume I must be by reading this. Maybe it isn’t.

All I can say is this; I speak from the heart. I am more than my words, but my words are everything to me.

It wouldn’t surprise me if this makes absolutely no sense to anyone but myself. That’s fine with me. I’m used to it.