When you spread your heart open to a writer, you should know what happens next. If I gave you the title date and publisher of all my works, and you were to read them, you would see yourself on those pages, incised to the soul to show the patternings on it.
Would I listen? Oh, I listened, then, to all your pain, to your joys, to your grief, to the sheer ugliness that can arise from the depths of a human heart. The sheer beauty, too. And I captured that essence of you on paper, ink for blood, and there you lie, sliced open, vivisected, and everyone praises her, praises the writer for her insight and way with words as you squirm there beneath the quill.
It's not her beauty, though. Not her own human emotions, always, lying there for the general public to paw through and catch up to use as a handkerchief should none other be nearby. There's the writer for you, and that's you on her page.
Would I?
Would I give you the link, that you may browse through my reflections? This is my life as well; I see myself the way I reflect in your eyes.
Perhaps something of me has come through on the page. Perhaps somewhere in my vivid depiction of you, your joy, pain, love, laughter, loss, something of my own view on life, my own aqua-tinted glasses, has made it to those words I so carefully or carelessly choose. Perhaps you can see me, a ghost in my own life, always upstaged, always a supporting character. There I was in the mirror, half a second before the camera turned on you. That was my hand placing the vase on the table beside you.
Perhaps...
Perhaps some day you will read what I have written.
