sometimes i'll talk to my dad on the phone after he's read a few of my blog entries. he'll get a concerned tone to his voice and ask are you ok? or he'll say something a little tongue in cheek, like geez, i didn't know you were so deep, or gosh, you're so emo. but he wants to know the full story. i know that sometimes, in my writing, i let it all hang out. my dad and i are really close, but sometimes, i can tell my writing catches him off guard. and i love to illicit any response, especially an honest one, because it opens the flood gates of communication. i may have to take the time explain it all out so he doesn't worry too much, whether my writing be about trials with alcohol or my journey through grief, but it's worth it. true, i may be guilty of over-dramatizing things sometimes. but i lead with my heart, not my rationality, and so my writing does the same.
still, there are many stories i haven't told. i guess you could call them my secrets...my privacy, my mystery. my grandma once told me: never be an open book. being the crazy little ukrainian god loving cat lady she is, i never really took her advice seriously. but those words ring true. there are stories too private to tell, stories that would incriminate the people i love. there are the blacknesses in life hidden deep in my pockets, mine and mine alone to keep, too dark to relive and recount. there are the joys and beauties so profound that words could not even begin to do them wonders. there are these things that i keep mostly to myself. mostly.