There’s a woman I know who is among the best of us, but she can’t see it. The rest of us, meanwhile, can see that much clearly, but will never see the rest of her.
She hides, you see. There are things within her that she does not trust to others. A long time ago she took to her soul with a censor’s knife, partitioning sensitive data away into herself. With the rest she fashioned a mask that rarely slips, and is even more rarely removed. It’s not fake, the mask. She is never not herself with those she cares to share her life with. It’s just that in her whole life she has found no-one she cares to share all her self with.
Privately, she rebukes herself for this. Sometimes parts of her are held back, and things would be greatly changed if they were revealed. This makes her feel like a liar. But those parts are her gift to give. Not everyone deserves them. It may be that no-one deserves them. We don’t demand to be allowed into her bedroom as she is getting dressed, or to witness those moments when her heart is touched, or to run our finger across a blotched tear drop in her diary. Intimacy is a treasure that is hers to hoard.
And in some ways her life is truer than many. She may wear a mask, and sometimes her lines are rote. But she never speaks in any voice but her own. It is that voice that I love.