I want to write a story.
I want it to be small but meaningful with a lot of depth. I want to write my heart out. But deceptively. I do not want it to reveal my darkest secrets. But I want them out too.
I’ll perhaps build a wall between myself and my story, a wall strong and fortified. There will be no door in it, just brick and mortar. And it will be too high to jump or see beyond it.
I might feel alone having hidden in such a fashion. But it will be for the best I know. I will cherish in the quiet and embrace my prison.
Because if I allowed a path to myself many would take it and come poking around. Their eyes will be daggers and their breaths fire. They would study my flesh with hot pokers and knives. And they will cut open my heart and empty its contents. They would then pass them around for closer scrutiny.
They don’t deserve to be here, and I would have it so.
But the brave and curious ones who would dig the foundations of the wall, or break it open with perseverance or climb the impassable heights would be welcome here in my little corner of suffering.
I will share my pains and my stories and they theirs. We will praise each other’s heroic deeds and laugh together at our foolishness and fears. And it would be a little better than loneliness perhaps.