Selfish

Source:  Dr. JK

I traipsed about the blogosphere this morning reading the real stories of real people poured out in written word and on display for any and all who might come across it them.  I have read such stories for years now.  I never cease to be amazed.

I've never been able to give myself like that.

I am  the reader, not the writer.... the listener, not the one sharing.  Tell me your story a thousand times over before I tell you anything significant about mine.  I am the confidant who, herself, does not confide.
And when I write?  I want to tell someone else's story.  I dream of telling someone else's story.

In my fantasy world I am an artist able to depict the extraordinary beauty of very ordinary lives.  Because I can see.  I see things many others miss.  Yet, as a writer, I am stunted by my stubborn refusal to pay any attention to the details of the life I am most vested in, my own.

There are many reasons why I dread looking inward.

~it seems selfish
~it bores me
~when it doesn't bore me, it scares me
~so many people reveal so much these days
~I don't like to follow crowds
~it seems selfish

But I am selfish.  Whether I write about it or not, the truth is I am reserved in tightfisted way.  I do not share because there is too much at stake, and I am avaricious.  I cannot write from such a posture.  I cannot honor the story of someone else while being cheap with my own.

And while pondering this, I have discovered (painfully, oh so painfully), that I am a miser not only in the telling of my story, but in the living it.

I do not give myself.  And what else do I really have to give?

God help me.

~Maria