I write because I want to be known. I don’t want to be admired, or esteemed or lauded in any way. I just want someone, anyone, to know the real me.
To me, there’s a difference in being seen and known. Being seen is when someone can notice or recognize things about you, even appreciate and love them, but is satisfied with just that. They don’t yearn to dig deeper, to ask, to explore, who are you in totality? But being known, that can only come about when someone else puts in a real effort to discover the entirety of another soul.
I’ve wanted to know so many people. I’ve memorized their significances and asked the unthought of questions. I’ve tried to piece together pasts and imagine the future from their vision. I’ve tried to find and touch every part of their heart and even pain.
But to this day, no one knows me. For 35 years I’ve been keeping a record of me, but no one has asked me to share it. And chances are, whatever remains of it that I leave to my children upon my death, it will most likely end up discarded, unread.
I’m tired of hoping to be known. I think from this point, I will put more effort into accepting that the remaining years of my life will be spent coming to peace with myself as an unknown.