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Tell me about you and I will better know myself


While I’ve always held on to the idea that I should write about my past, I haven’t actually formed a good reason for doing so, though I think there’s one in there somewhere. I have to weigh to possible end results—from opening myself up to judgement and criticism, to maybe actually succeeding in not just entertaining a reader enough to keep them turning the pages, but to make them feel like they’ve found a part of themselves within those pages, a connection, some relief, some comfort. The comfort would be from reading and then knowing that someone out there went through some tough shit and made something good of it—that possibly they too might be able to mine a small treasure from the muck of their own past, something of value from deep within the involuted mess we call our pasts.

Maybe it would be just as beneficial and simpler to spend time finding just the right words to directly state the idea that we’re all only as worthy to others as we are to ourselves. Yet those who don’t know this already won’t give worth to the words alone. They are doubters and want proof. Tell me about you and I will better know myself. Tell me about you and I will judge your worth to me based on your triumphs over your past, not the combination of letters and spaces and punctuation you choose to teach me a lesson.

We have enough compilations of inspirational quotes and positive affirmations to build a paper Rome, but how are we to know that their authors weren’t just attempting to be clever, that they earned their wisdom, believed in their wisdom, so wholly, that no other actions would seem worthy until they shared it with their fellow sufferers. Take my burdens and build an ark that would carry you through your personal flood. Bring others aboard that need solace and rest from the internal treading of salty cold waters before they still their struggles and sink.

We’re insecure, fragile, love-seeking players masquerading as little gods among our little worlds, hoping to make an impression while we’re here so we’ll be remembered after we’re gone. If it’s not our name that is spoken by those who will come after us, then maybe it will be the lessons we’ve imparted, passed down to sons and granddaughters, wisdom that strengthens character to the point of becoming a trait as solid as a genome in ones DNA. By bleeding our hearts and baring our minds, by exposing our flaws and fears, we prove our own truth so subjective that in the end it can be nothing but objective.

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