Masks of Paper and Ink

 Hidden.......that is the status of many of my writings. Hidden......hidden away in a notebook next my bed, the ones that hold pieces of my heart, they hold pieces of me, those who write can understand this, I believe.

Sometimes what we write, it just wasn't meant to be seen by others, we pour our hearts out in a poem two pages long, beautifully written, but unable to be enjoyed by others, because for them to be read feels like a violation, as though someone caught you at your weakest moment when you fell flat on your face.

Pieces of our hearts get put into it, pieces of us, our dreams and our fears, the darkest corners of our hearts, a light shined upon them from our point of view, onto a piece of paper. 

The time we felt as though we were nothing at all, that we could turn to dust and be blown away by the wind, and no one would notice or care, the moment we felt such anger or hate, it tainted our thoughts before we felt ashamed. All these, woven onto a piece of paper in scribbles lines, written through tears or whispered through a smile.

The pain or the joy in your heart, fallen onto a sheet of white, held in a trembling hand. The emotion of the moment, fueling the words, more and more begins to pour onto the page, until finally............finally, it is emptied from your heart, like a poison cleansed from your veins.

Who could dare read these words? We keep them hidden for fear of what others may think, but why?

We are not alone in our battles, we are not the only ones who feel fear, regret, pain, sorrow, shame, anger........why can't others see what we feel, why can't others understand our fear, try to understand our sorrow, empathize with our pain? Why must we keep ourselves hidden? Hidden behind our masks of paper and ink...........

Because, we are in our writing, we pour ourselves into it, what you read from my hand, that.........that is me.

So now I look to my left, at the worn, doodled over notebook resting by my bed, the holder of my heart, the recipient of my fears and dreams. Why should this inanimate thing, this emotionless object, be the one to see my heart?

If you read the contents of my heart, what will you think? Will you feel sad, will you feel sympathy, will you experience understanding? If you read the contents of my heart, feel not less of me......