If I told you my story, would you cry? Or would you read each line with a little smile on your face…secretly taking pleasure in my misery? Would you even bother to hear me out? Or would you read a line here and there and decide you heard enough to put me in the box you have prepared for me? You know, that box over in the corner? You have written on it…it says, “Not Important.”
Would you rejoice in my triumphs? Or would you cross your arms in jealousy and state I just got lucky? And what if I did? Are you upset because you could not corner the market on luck itself?
Who the hell am I to think my story even matters? Who am I to refuse being placed in such a comfy little box with all the labels drawn out so perfectly? Who do I think I am to insist that I am worthy without the un?
When we meet, I will see it in your eyes…how you won’t look at me…You don’t even really see me. I will hear it in your words…how you ask me what I have already told you, and spend all your time talking. You don’t really hear me. And I feel it in your spirit…the heavy and dark disconnect that no one can quite put into words…yet I feel it lurking there….
In truth, my story does matter. There is value in what I have to say…but sadly, I am the only one who knows it…
And I will not tell you…because you did not ask.