It’s 11:49 p.m.
Four days of March 2015 remain.
I published nine blog posts in March prior to this one.
I drafted five additional blog posts in March. All unpublished, including a 1,600 word post from this afternoon.
She told me my blog was brave. She knows these intimate details of my life. She knows I’m pretty introverted, that she probably wouldn’t find out nearly as much about me and my life if we sat down together for coffee.
That may be true. That may not be true at all.
This blog. It’s transparent. It’s real. It’s authentic. I’ve given it my full heart. But it’s not all of me.
Perhaps I’m a hard nut to crack. Perhaps not at all.
I know what I need to be cracked. That’s time. The kind of time we don’t have in America. The kind of time we don’t create in America.
Few have truly cracked me.
Yes, the brave who have gone there have seen glimpses of the real me. Maybe even the real me.
This you must know. This blog is my heart. But it’s not all of me.