Never Tell Anyone Too Much About Yourself
In the quiet corners of a coffee shop,
where baristas sing to the rhythm of espresso machines,
I linger, my thoughts curving like steam,
rising into the cool air,
and I wonder about the art of concealment,
the secrets we cradle in the palms of our hands,
an archive of memories buried in the soft soil
of who we project to the world.
The first sentence of my life whispering,
“Never tell anyone too much about yourself. ”
An old friend once warned me,
a sage wrapped in mystery.
In a world where words flow like rivers,
the truth often becomes a waterfall,
and our silent depths inevitably beckon
for the touch of sunlight,
but the shadows beneath are murky.
What does it mean to reveal?
To peel back the layers,
like an onion released from its papery skin,
whose fragrance is both tearful and sharp?
A truth wraps around:
the deeper you cut, the more you expose,
and with each slice comes the risk
of being lost in the layers,
of losing the essence,
the core that makes you whole.
We are stories told around flickering fires,
tales whispered in the dark,
the flickering flames mirroring
the light of our souls and the shadows we cast,
for every spark that flies is a thought, a memory,
a desire wrapped in velvet silence,
an echo of a laughter shared
with friends who will carry the weight
of confessions like stones in their pockets.
They say to share your truth,
but what if that truth burns
with the intensity of a thousand suns,
blinding in its exposure?
Would you dare unleash the tempest within?
Would you let it roam freely,
or would you cage it,
this feral beast that knows your name?
In silence, there is strength;
in letting go, there is fear.
My childhood friend Sarah once confided
that her heart was a garden overgrown,
with vines of past hurts and dreams unfulfilled,
that she too often felt the stone on her chest,
the weight of her revelations
tugging at the corners of her smile.
“I’ve shared too much,” she sighed one dusky evening,
“and now those secrets have grown teeth,
turned into ravenous creatures
that haunt my thoughts with their endless hunger. ”
What are we to do with our shadows,
those uninvited guests that crash our parties?
They lurk on the periphery of our truths,
dancing just out of reach, whispering,
“Tell us more, unravel your heart,
show us the rawness, reveal your soul,”
but I—grasping my journal tightly, its pages bulging
with the weight of my words—
feel the reverberation of caution ringing true.
For what is revealed is a form of nakedness,
each revelation a stitch unpicked,
each truth a fabric thread loosely woven,
and when storms of misunderstanding
or betrayal enshroud our worlds,
what remains of our tapestry?
Frayed edges and faded colors,
the brilliance dimmed by the grey
of doubt and uncertainty.
Are we not all meant to be mysteries,
enigmas wrapped in riddles, dancing figures
hidden in the sunset glow?
Do we not owe it to ourselves—
to our spirals of joy and pain—
to guard our hearts like treasure chests
locked in the corners of our minds?
Many will seek the map to the treasure,
but only a few possess the key,
for they know, like I do,
that vulnerability is a double-edged sword.
Consider the seasons, changing and reborn,
the leaves fall in their quiet surrender,
their whispers crumbling to dust upon the earth.
Trees stand sentinel, unchanged,
branches adorned with memories,
their roots clenched tight in the embrace
of the soil—holding fast to secrets,
to the water they drink,
the sunlight that nourishes their silent growth.
So too must we remain steadfast,
silent sentinels amidst the storms of life.
I pen letters to no one,
my thoughts thundering on parchment,
secrets splattered across the page,
a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns,
each word imbued with the intensity
of feelings we dare not voice.
In curled corners, I fold and tuck them away,
sealed with a sigh for the day
when my heart needs to untangle itself,
to spill those secrets onto the world,
but today, solitude cradles them close.
Reflecting upon those who wear their hearts
like badges of honor,
their vulnerability is a beacon,
drawing others to the warmth of their light,
but amidst the glow, I sense a caution,
a flicker of hesitation in their laughter.
For every friend beget as we spill ourselves,
could turn stranger on the path—
this lesson is etched in the fabric of experience,
etched deeper than I could have imagined.
An email dropped into the digital void,
a pressing request for transparency,
the benevolence of trust meets
the tragic retribution of betrayal,
and I wonder at all that happens
when the curtain falls,
when the audience is left
in silence,
and you stand, vulnerable and alone,
without costume or veneer.
Rather, let us weave our stories
through the delicate strands of conversation,
with shadows dancing between the spaces,
layers of sugar and salt, but never too much,
allowing a sweet glimpse through the window of our souls,
a flicker inviting yet impervious.
For beauty lies in the heart of the unknown,
in curiosity,
in the mystery we hold gently in our palms.
Let us speak with intention,
allowing currents of deeper meaning—
like the muted notes of a melody,
where crescendos rise and fall,
an intricate dance of silence and sound.
The whispered secrets of an autumn breeze,
the quiet murmur of the moon,
the stars echoing the unfathomable,
I stroll for miles in the solitude of the night,
reflecting upon all that shapes,
the threads that bind us in patience,
the moments of laughter weaving into worries,
the webs spun tenderly with care,
yet resolute in their boundlessness.
Each connection a tapestry hung before me,
but I trace the edges with fingertips
cold from the chill of honesty.
Herein lies the art of sharing:
how much do we unveil,
how much shall be left to breathe
in the silence between notes,
an interlude of understanding?
Our hearts are such fragile things,
craving connection yet afraid of exposure,
so we walk this tightrope of honesty and reserve,
balancing the weight of words and the freedom of silence.
In friendships laced with laughter,
with shared sunsets and lingering tea mugs,
we learn the gift of patience,
of knowing when to share
and when to hold fast to the quiet
that settles like dust in forgotten corners.
The act of revealing becomes not a flood,
but a gentle stream, trickling slowly,
an intimate dance with trust—a choice,
a fragrant petal brushing against the surface.
As I step outside,
the world is a canvas alive with color—
each moment a brushstroke shaping
the way we navigate our lives,
and I carry with me the wisdom found
amongst the chaos,
that the art of connection lies—
not in the grand expositions,
but in the fragments shared,
the humble pieces that connect—
So I’ll whisper softly, tender yet steadfast,
some things are meant to remain wrapped,
like gifts waiting for the right moment to be opened,
allowing the strings of my story
to hang freely in the air—
each note played on the strings of others
but with purpose,
fostering a bond quietly,
a familiarity that allows
each person to hold their own silences
and share in the serenity of being present.
This is the essence of knowing oneself,
the magic woven in our shadowed existence,
and while the heart longs to be known,
it is the mysteries we keep—
the gentle breath of safety it invokes
that lays the foundation,
for the meticulous dance of life.
So I stand, one foot in a universe of questions,
the other planted firmly in the wisdom
of the secrets I choose to safeguard,
never tell too much,
never let too much slip—
for in that, emerged is the heart
of an everlasting connection,
something tender, something profound,
the journey, shared yet beautifully solitary.
And with each step, I paint,
a story tethered to the universe,
a universe tenderly unraveling—
one secret at a time.
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