If I died, one would merely have to collect my writings, photographs, lyrics, journals, and the conversations I have had to know everything about me. I feel in life each one of us are a complex puzzle, the older we get the more pieces there are for one to collect. We give a small portion of ourselves to each event, moment, and person that we come into contact with. I would imagine we are all the same, some pieces given more freely than others. Some pieces bigger than others, according to their importance/impact on/in our lives.
Are we really ever really ourselves, not in the sense of being who we really are, but do we belong to ourselves?
Are we really an island to ourselves?
And they take from us as well. Whether good or bad, right or wrong, positive or negative.
The other day as a friend and I were sitting outside wishing it were a few degrees cooler and hoping that there would be a lot less humidity in the air, I proceeded to surrender some of my struggles to my friend, not that she could ever relate or sympathise, but that I could hand her a section of me that was an aggravation to maintain.
Why does handing something verbally over to someone feel so freeing? As if now it is their burden to share as well, even though that could not be further from the truth.
I wonder if the reason I don’t tell one person alone every aspect of my life is because I’m afraid of what they might find out. As if one person alone held every key they would realise I am simply human.
Silence has never had its way with me before, so why begin now?
I want to hear what others believe, I realise that the more I know, the more I realise that I don’t have a damn clue.
I want to learn truth, I think we all do, there is something out there greater than ourselves, that can complete our own ‘puzzle’, because I see now we were never complete to begin with. Though I find solace in the words and wisdom of others, I see that knowledge and understanding are only the beginning of any quest for veracity.
