Why?

Why do we say the things we do? Why is it that when you share a story with another, something about your past, existence, dreams. . .it feels as though something is lost? It’s almost as if it’s no longer yours. . .it’s a shared experience.

I used to share all my stories, well most, up front in hopes that someone would see through the veneer and stick around to find out who I was. And then, I decided to try and not spill my guts, but rather to wait and see if they merit the information given. I prefer the latter. . .but it ups the ante for me now. If I tell something that previously I would have told almost anyone, but is now remaining a secret for those special few that are actually able to breach the walls I’ve so cleverly (and recently) put in place, it becomes very intimate.

Why?

I feel embarrassed now when I didn't before. Maybe that I showed a bit much of myself with the emotion- I guess the stoic capability of telling my pain was lost when I decided it wasn’t public information.