It has been a while since I just wrote. Not about some some meaningless review or about some half-hearted attempt at saving the world, but about me. The people who write every day about what is going on in their heads and their hearts are much braver than I will ever be. For that I admire them. It is probably this admiration that did some small part in getting me to start this thing in the first place. My grandfather also kept a journal. I’m not sure how often he wrote in them, but I know there are several boxes of them. My father has yet to gather the strength to read them and I don’t blame him. He has to come to grips with his father’s death and with the nagging question; “would he want me to read them?”
It is a question I have struggled with myself as the months have droned on about this blog. Do I want to make my most intimate thoughts privy to the world? Should I? Does anyone even want or care to know? At first I didn’t care what the answer was to any of those questions, but as time wore on I have begun to think on them harder. I believe I can distill the questions down to the one that really matters to me; do I truly want to know what other people really think about me?
I believe the answer is yes.
But I am afraid. I am afraid of knowing what kind of man I really am. I have been called everything from amazing to wasted space, from awful to wonderful space, and from heroic to villainous. Who are we really if not reflections of the world that views us? It burns me to know that people think poorly of me. That I have done something to affect them crossly in some way wounds me. Because of this I really and truly get along with everyone. I harbor no long-lasting ill will on anyone. Even the two people who betrayed my deepest trust are spared my curses. Sure I may talk bravado around friends who either know them or know of them, but when it comes down to it I have no desire or will to keep that kind of hate in my heart.
My friends say I am a good man. They trust me (I think). I am a good friend. I am loyal to a fault. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I am the stereotypical “good guy” who always finishes last. I have a paralyzing fear of rejection. I am afraid of women I am attracted to. I am smart, not brilliant like some people say I am, but I am smart. I have a difficult time selling myself because: a) I have a well-bruised self image and, b) I am far too modest about my accomplishments.
Yet I continue to write in this thing and the question begs to be asked, why?
One of these days I might actually get around to answering that.
