Mine

I cringe at the thought of small talk; at the thought of entering a room and filling the silence with mindless details of the day, and the weather, and laconic responses to endless “How-are-you’s” and “How-was-your-weekend’s”. All which only serve to get in the way of great conversation to burgeon from skimming the surfaces to actually saying what we really feel. Fine, maybe sometimes it isnecessary because they are part of something greater, only then, only then. 

And I’ve never been one to make do with less than ideals conditions in which to share great thoughts, or personal fears, or just to connect with someone just as we are: nakedly human and all-throughout imperfect. Quiet the opposite, actually. I think maybe because I recoil so much from the kinds of conversations that make me lose neurons instead of gaining any is why I’m, bluntly putting it, one of the most open and willing-to-be honest person you might ever meet.

However, I always used to be a little taken aback by people who seemed to cringe at all the things I cringed about in reverse; where anything meaningful and intimate got lost in the middle ground between their thoughts and their lips, giving way to an insurmountable amount of situations where I just sat there across the table wondering what on earth it was going to take to get them to crack. 

The point is that it has been a while since I’ve shared anything personal, unlike previous years where I bluntly poured over the keyboard all kinds of strange feelings and incoming thoughts about the meaning of life, and even cheesier things. But I think that I now finally understand all my interactions with people across tables where tight-lipped smiles that concealed an avalanche of truth and fumbles for words to say,  reigned over all. Because somehow, along the way, I’ve started losing patience for clarifications, too. And  have made peace with the cryptic and tedious way feelings can work: where sometimes, when we feel we just feel. And sometimes that’s all there is to it. 

People are like mirrors sometimes. And it takes an army to prevent what you pour unto others from spilling unto your own shoes; from bending down and picking the remnants off, and dirtying your own hands in the process. And one thing I’ve learned is that when those same people really care about you, they will reflect all the sparks and all the light you shine on them, as well as all the dullness and vacancy that sometimes seeps out of the corner of those smiles that don’t quite meet the eyes. 

So maybe I don’t want to be walking into a room full of mirrors all the time. I think maybe I like the subtle mystery and promise of blank walls and burnished tiles. Where my reflection isn’t staring back at me all the time looking for a little acknowledgement, searching for a little recognition, and where I don’t have to constantly see my self through another’s eyes.

I think maybe we over-share sometimes because we are searching to fill a void that no amount of “selfies” and “TMI” Facebook statuses can fill; I think maybe we are just afraid of being plain, just ourselves, just skin upon skin, upon muscles, upon bones. 

 It’s taken me a while, and I haven’t really fought it, but I think maybe now I’m finally Ok with losing all lucidity and delving into the unambiguity of my plainness in all it’s manifestations: My life doesn’t have to be out there for all the world to see, and it doesn’t need to be reflected right back at me through the tarnished images others conceive about me and most importantly, it doesn’t need to be filtered, edited, or perfected.

Because for as much as I like sharing what I feel and talking about my personal life, and for as much as I’ve never given the phrase “trust issues” a room in my internal vocabulary, I’ve learned to find charm in what’s rightfully mine and to fine peace in the churning thoughts only my mind can speak, and my heart can feel. 

I want to steward my life, my thoughts, and my feelings not the way it is reflected back at me, not the way mirrors paint the picture. I want to collect moments the way one sometimes collect favorite things, favorite tokens; the way grandparents love one another:

Quietly. It’s not necessarily out there for all the world to see, it’s not necessarily provoking, or life-changing, or desirable, but it’s mine.