It’s not in your nature to be suspicious, to question, cower, stalk, and yet … somehow you knew something was amiss. Could it be that you were never as anonymous as you thought you were? And more shockingly, could it be that you never wanted to be anonymous in the first place?
Who among us does?
We all want to be recognized, observed … read.
Isn’t that why we do this, put ourselves out there, or rather … here?
We want to be heard. We want others to read what we write and respond. It is, ironically enough, what this is all about, and yet we crave anonymity to a degree because it is just so damn tempting to reveal that which is probably better left unrevealed. Quite the conundrum.
But at its core, this is about me, and you—all of you, any of you—who take the time to read. Because therein lies the truth of why we come here and spill our hearts: we want to know that we are not alone.
That which is revealed, all the suffering, the real joy, and the anguish—maybe it’s better kept inside, where it can fester, and kill you one of these days.
No. Know what? Maybe you share, and let the prying eyes read, and stalk and wonder … how it is that you can manage to keep one step ahead of them, although they think themselves so clever—Sherlocks, all of them. Remember, they’re only seeing what you want them to see.
Let them read. Let their jaws drop in amazement as you spin your contrivances. Most of it is going right over their heads anyway.
Carry on, Nora. I’ve got your back.