On keeping it real

Are people losing touch with reality?

I cannot write about other people, and it may be difficult to even write about myself.  I have written that the truth is a slippery thing.  This is what I mean.  Being truthful is hard, especially when you don't even know what it is.

Way back in high school, a fellow classmate gave me a book about being "real".  She said that she didn't think I was being "real".  What does that mean?  Perhaps to understand it in the context of this blog, you have to read the book.  She seemed to really believe in this book, but I pretty much blew it all off until I had something of a crisis several years later.  Frankly, I don't know if ever really got that deep into the book---before or after the crisis.  I fiddled around the edges with it, one might say.  The results aren't terribly different than what I had gotten before, but not because I think the book was wrong, but it is hard to implement it.  The truth is a slippery thing.

She also recommended the New Testament.  Naturally, this was something I wasn't going to do at that time, as I went around blabbing about my atheism.  Here's a news flash.  I started reading the New Testament before the crisis, not after.  But not back when she recommended it.  Hmm.  Do you think it might have made a difference?

But that's not being real.  I was being a bit naughty and thinking about seduction.  But being "real" in the context of this post is to reveal what the crisis was and what it was all about.  But I can't do that here---or maybe anywhere with anyone.  It is too personal.  I could do this only with people I know---maybe---, and I don't know anyone at all in which I would want to share that story with.

I've nibbled around the edges, just like I did with that book.  Also when it comes to the New Testament.

For me, it was always about something, but it never got that close to home.  Home is a refuge from the madness of the world outside.  To me, it has always been a place of safety.  Where you go to get your batteries recharged.

I don't allow people into my home.  Frankly, I think it is because people scare the living crap out of me.  Admitting that is hard.  It doesn't conform with the ideal image of strength, which I'd like to think of myself as being.

I'm willing to let you see a little of me, but not all.  That's about as good as it gets around here.  The way of the world, it seems.