I’m not the only one with a story behind me. I forget that sometimes. Perhaps I shouldn’t feel too guilty about it, I’m sure many, if not all, people tend to not think about the story behind the people they meet, work with, pass by in the street or interact with online. After all, there are only a few people out of all the people I ever cross paths with, that I will ever get to know enough to have some idea of their story.
In fact, I can’t say I know much of anyone’s story even among those select few I call friends. When I think back on it, I really didn’t know all about my parents stories and yet I spent so many years with them. I can’t say I know my brothers too well but of course better than most friends.
Really only one friend I’ve had through the years that I knew more about than I knew about anyone else in my life. It still saddens me that friendship didn’t last longer than it did. But, it wasn’t only up to me to decide that.
At times I find myself wondering if I’ll ever be that close to any one person ever again. And there are still moments when I miss that connection. However, the past is behind me and it has to remain there, as a fond collection of memories.
Maybe I’m not the most curious of cats when it comes to trying to find out what made other people who they are but I can’t say I don’t watch or listen and try to piece it together from what I see and hear.
Or perhaps it all boils down to my disorder making it harder for me to interpret people but also more focused on trying to figure them out despite this extra difficulty. Not sure.
I do know, I’m always talking too much about myself whenever possible. And that small talk is often hard for me, if I even try. But I try to learn to listen more and ask other people questions, since everyone likes to talk about themselves more than anything. Or is it just me?
The end of this draws near, as I notice I’m digressing. Always a challenge when writing without having any plan for what the topic ought to be.