Writing reveals so much about a person. It reveals things that I didn’t even know about myself. Stuff slips out unannounced. It’s like I’m living inside a fishbowl surrounded by a swirling darkness that everyone can see, but eludes me.
I can’t see it until both my arms have fallen off and I lose my sense of touch, my sense of false freedom while inhabiting such a small fishbowl.
Reading another person’s inky thoughts while peering inside their self-contained fishbowl, gives you full custody of my heart strings. You know a side of me that I’ll never see. I can never be outside my container. And because I can never be outside, I can only see you as a reflection of myself. Seeing you as my own guppy reflection making kissie faces at me, or looking at me like I’m crazy.
My heart will always belong to others. I can’t really own anything.