Monday, 10 October 2011

What I Haven't Told You Yet.

You know, I don't like how transparent I am.

The way you know me better than I thought you could; better than I thought anyone could.

And I don't know how you do it. How you see me, and see through me. How you've picked up on the details. (How you'll know, word for word, what I'm talking about here.)
And part of me - a large part - can't stand it. It worries me and makes me feel unsafe, unsheltered. Like I am standing on a spit of sand in the middle of the ocean, at the mercy of the waves and wind and rain that are crashing and howling and beating in around me. Like I am about to be carried away into the deep and unforgiving sea of vulnerability. I don't like that.

But another part of me - and this part is very small - is getting used to the thought. Is considering jumping into the frigid and wild and overwhelming waters and seeing if I don't quite drown.

You make me nervous, I'm sure you know. You know everything, and everyday I am reminded of how little I know. I know nothing.

And we are so very far apart.

{Photo: Theo Gosselin}

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