You Don't Really Know Me

You don't really know me. You come here to my corner shop in cyberspace and eavesdrop on my thoughts and my life. You read the words and think that you know what I am doing with my life.

You read the words and think that you have special insight into what drives me. You read the words and think that you understand my hopes and fears.

But you only see what I choose to show you. You only read the tales I tell and even then you have to remember that not all that glitters is gold. I write what I write and let you decide if it is right.

The words flow from my fingers onto the keyboard and then are cut and pasted with reckless abandon. They wander from left to right and right to left, up or down. It doesn't really matter because sometimes I just let them go.

Sometimes I empty out the closet and let the air fill the space that the junk occupied. Oftentimes it is meaningless drivel but still you wonder if there is a secret message. In response I suggest that you close your eyes and listen to the silence.

What do you hear and what do you see. I can show you. I can tell you, but I can't bring you inside because the door is closed and the keeper is on vacation and hasn't any idea when he will return.

And in the end what does it matter and what does it mean. These are just words on a page composed by an ordinary man living an ordinary life.


The Misanthrope said...

Ah, the danger of writing is that the writer generally reveals far more than they think. The choice of words and the topics selected provide a certain insight. So, I guess the converse is that we know you better than you think we know you.

Jack Steiner said...


Probably true.

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