I met someone who crossed from Nepal to China by bicycle, he was telling my all about his adventures and I asked him whether he had kept a diary about his trip. He said “I met many people on my travels who have achieved the same things and I didn’t want to repeat what others have already said.”
Somehow this triggered in me a sense of sadness after all the stories he’d told me, his feelings about what he had been through, the people he had met those little and unique experiences as part of the trip would be forever confined to himself and perhaps shared with the few people he chose to share them with.
Perhaps I saw there a little bit of my insecurity when I think that I’m not good enough, not important enough, that others would not want to read about my journey. He told me about secrets he keeps from his family and from everyone he thinks would not understand his new way of life. But one thing that struck me was that he listened to me. Not like the ones who do so only for entertainment, he listened to my every word as I described my dreams, my doubts, the love I hold for others. This had been one of the most meaningful experiences I have had in a while, when I could be my vulnerable self without defense.
Writers write because they need to, like leafing though a new book, the act of writing leads you on to the discovering more of yourself with every new page. Like turning into a blind corner sometimes you find things that you didn’t expect. This time I saw my courage, my blatant outspoken nature as nothing but cowardice, I charge in with the truth leaving no room for uncertainty because that’s where vulnerability lies, where difficult questions may begin, questions I don’t want to answer, situations I don’t want to consider and fears I don’t want to face.