The stories we hold in.

I have never viewed myself as a renewable resource.

I guard my life’s small moments of meaning close to my chest. Like an alley dog with butcher’s scraps, I am afraid to share, terrified that if I give my joys, my stories, my dreams away there will be nothing left.

I am not sure what I believe will be gone — nourishment? Hope? Fantasy? Maybe I believe that, when held up to a discerning eye, the preciousness of my life will be rendered “not enough.” All that is special being just an illusion.

So I hold it in, feasting by myself, even on myself, waiting for the moment when I find “the one.” The one who will understand me. The one who will see me. The one who will help translate the world for me or, better yet, help me translate myself to the world.

But what if my assumptions aren’t true?

What if I am enough? What if my nightmares aren’t a reality from which I am running, but tragedies that I can handle? What if I can fail with grace and resilience and build again without ever losing the love I have received from myself and others?

What if there is a new world waiting open myself, and my stories, to it?

I only hope to one day see.