Am sitting here at this cold computer in this cold house, wrapped in an overlarge sweatshirt and grey cotton pants - need I remind you the season boasts summer? I am thinking of something a bit uncomfortable and yet necessary all the same.

I think I am too honest. And yet, never honest enough. I wear the bits of emotion on my sleeve, mostly because if I attempt to hide them, they're always found under the oriental rug in the living room anyway. A speck of dust, inconsequencial and unimportant, and somehow such an irritant that it must be done away with immediately. I am transparent and yet labeled mysterious all at the same time. Leaving dumbfounded people behind and meeting merciless leaders in the forefront. They all intimidate me and nothing I can do will keep them from not knowing the real me and yet questioning constantly whether I mean it or not. How can a paradox survive?

I want to be honest. I want to be truthful. I want to be transparent. I want to make applesauce from apples I've picked, from trees I've planted, from ground I tilled, from land I walk barefoot on. I want it to be known that I have dreams. That I think about things too and am not just an uncomfortable silence. It's not that I haven't anything to say, it's just that if I say it you may think me too honest.

The sleeve of my shirt hides more tricks then you or I even know, the tricks of transparency, so clear we don't even know they're there. So emotion filled that they fill a bottle to brimming and the only thing that overflows is water, clear invisible water. You cannot and will not see more than I let you, and yet you see everything that you want to see and nothing I showed you.