Am I an open book?

These last years, I've seen myself turn to bleak isolation.

Isolation needn't be bleak, but I know mine was.

Eventually, I talked more.

There are several people out there aware of my wounds.

I told them.

They can use none of those to harm me.

I have armed myself against that.

They know to the extent anyone, other than myself, could manage to do so.

But, for some reason, I still feel hollow at times, even after sharing that much.

The purposeful distancing I used to protect myself back then might be the reason.

When I was still processing all that pain, I no longer interacted with others as I used to do.

I was so cautious about everything, every word, action, silence and inaction.

As I got better, I said more of what I meant.

I allowed myself to show what was truly meaningful to me.

I did not build walls anymore.

Yet, although I intended to have more of a "normal" social life, I realised that my abilities to do that had worsened.

More than that, I had almost lost them completely.

It must have been those years.

So, now, I feel as if others don't know me, at least, not as much as those I knew before my melancholy did.

For instance, I've denied access to "that part of my existence".

I fail to nourish it, I've forgotten how to do that.

After all, it remains the one issue I can't solve.

I don't understand why it is this pain I can't go through and leave behind.

I am ashamed of it, of its impact, its ferocity, its power.

I managed much worse.

Wait! on which principle am I deeming the rest worse than this?

Those I see others use?

Perhaps, for me, the worst is this.

It must be.

It has been years, and I've mastered the courage to face all the rest except this.

This remains because it hurts the most.

More often than not, I don't control the chaos it causes once awake.

Why don't I talk about it though?

Is it pride?

If it is, then what an unusual sense of pride do I have!

Is it so precious that I can't find anyone fit to hear about it?

I can't tell.

Sometimes, I think about it, and it is fine.

Sometimes, it hurts me.

Sometimes, it causes resentment.

Sometimes, I am adamant it does not matter at all.

Sometimes, I tell myself it shouldn't matter.

Sometimes, it is all I think about.

Is it the lack of closure linked to it?

Is it a tip of another iceberg?

07/01/2021