Its so easy to trust someone you barely know to someone you’ve known your entire life, you confide in them, knowing that at that moment they know absolutely nothing about you, so what you choose to tell them at this point is what they would eventually perceive of you. You tell him things that you promised to take with you to your grave, frightening isn’t it? Those so called “dark realms” that you can never utter even in your own mind. Fuck the “you” shall we, and lets make everything into an “I”, cause we are talking about me here.
I meet my stranger, he’s always so “different”, so “unpredictable” and did I mention “ambiguous”! They are all chips of the same block, strangers I never like to put a face on, but strangers I’ve met. I have moments with them that I know will stay in my heart forever, is it “love”, no, its just the feeling that someone agrees that they don’t understand me. I am a stranger to them too, and each day they turn through the pages of my life, pages I’ve never opened to anyone else other than my “string of strangers”. I like to think of myself as a book that never opens, little did i know I’ve always been an open book, open on a blank page. I prefer blank pages. They say a lot more than a million words could ever try to convey. Thats me a blank page. Thats the first page I show my stranger, and fuck does he get excited cause he is on a treasure hunt. So does he hit gold? At least he thinks he does, when I turn over to reveal my black page. The “Black Page”, now what could that be, I’ve had these black pages with me as long as I could remember, I just never opened them. If you love the people in your life ,what they don’t know about you doesn’t hurt, its best keeping your darkness buried in the closet sometimes. I have Black Pages, but I only show my stranger a page. If he gets lucky he might get two. But thats were it stops, most of the times because I don’t want to scare him with anymore and sometimes I like to forget that I have more.
What is it about taking a pen and writing your life in someone whom you know would never turn to those pages for the world to see? I have no clue, but its moments like those that make me feel that I am cryptic and he realizes it immediately and he can’t see through me and knows he never can. Its at this moment that I feel completely understood, completely naked in someone’s eyes, their eyes for a moment lingers into my soul. And then I come back to reality and settle down knowing the engraved facts of life that no one talks about, we’re all strangers, a mother is a stranger to her own child, and a husband to his wife. I look into the mirror every morning and see a stranger. I am a stranger to myself. I am my own faceless stranger.
