When I walk out into the world among strangers I forget I am an unknown quantity. Although I know how to wear my heart on my sleeve, I don't know how to wear my history or my story.
For one thing, something about the way I look elicits a story about me out of people -- but it's a story that has nothing to do with me. Instead, it has to do with some "exotic" culture that I have no knowledge of.
By looking at me, there's no way one could tell what my relationship with my parents is like. Nor could one tell that I am educated, have a fondness for double entendre, believe at the core people are good, or a number of other things about me.
Despite this, for some reason, I forget that I am just as much a stranger to a stranger as they are to me.
Post a Comment