Every time we share, it differs; every time it differs, we confuse; every time we confuse, we refuse to share. Sharing has always been caring; when we share our problems, we hope someone would be there for us; when we hope someone would share his problems with us, we want to be there for him or perhaps, we want him to know we actually care. Very often, we would hear people telling us that we should let our feelings out of the cage, to count on their shoulders, to feel better. Nevertheless, we may encounter problems in starting the stories of ours, for we may not be a good story teller, for we may not know what we truly have in mind regarding that particular matter, or maybe, we just don’t want to because it might be something personal, something indescribable, something not worth sharing. Whenever somebody praises us, we would always tell him that there’s something more instead of what he has seen; whenever the others think we are great, we would always deny it, though it somehow makes us happy; whenever we are told to cry our lungs out, we refuse to, as it may be personal and certainly not want to be disturbed nor to get attention of others. One specific area hidden in us, where all the stories are stored, be it the forgotten or the unforgettable, they remain to be unseen; even when we allow certain people to enter the hearts of ours, there is no guarantee that this particular valley can be found, for we are not the one who decide who to discover, who not to, but the mind when the time is right.
