For a while, I considered myself to be an “open book.” No piece of information was too confidential, embarrassing or painful to mention. I was so confident telling stories about my life, I always wondered why other people weren’t as open as me. I considered myself an open book until I experienced a reason to stay quiet. To keep the experience on the page – so to speak. But when these memories of mine were too painful to reiterate – even through writing – it made me wonder how there were people in my life who needed to know the mechanics of my brain, my triggers and so forth.
I’m sure you can think of a handful of people who have come and gone in your life that had no interest in the person you are today, but enjoyed kicking down the door to your past, and not understanding why you didn’t have a spare key.
Fuck those people.
We are all storytellers. We are all interchangeable characters. We play heroes, foes, friends, lovers, bosses and strangers. We are alive though. We are free. We are not confined by a page or ten-paged chapter never to be heard of again. Don’t let someone come into your life and play editor.
You are allowed to have plot holes. If this new friend actually cares for you, they won’t notice the inconsistencies. Your chapter fifty is their chapter one.
When I meet someone, or embark on a new milestone, it’s like starting at chapter one again and again.
And some books are better than others.