I don’t trust easy.
It’s not because I think I’m better than anyone. It’s not pride. It’s not coldness. It’s more like… I’ve seen what happens when you hand someone the soft parts of you, and they drop them. Or worse—they smile while they do it.
So, I keep my stories close.
I laugh when I’m supposed to.
I ask how you’re doing, and I listen hard.
But I don’t offer much back. Not right away.
People have called me quiet. Guarded. Mysterious, even.
That one always makes me laugh a little.
Like I’m some riddle waiting to be solved, when really—I’m just careful.
See, it’s not that there’s nothing inside. There’s a lot.
Whole landscapes.
Some of them warm and golden, some of them cracked and overgrown.
And I’ve let people in before—
some wandered off without a second glance.
Others broke things just to see what would happen.
So now, I don’t swing the door open.
I keep it latched.
I watch. I wait.
But if you’re patient…
if you don’t push or pry or try to fill the silence too fast…
If you sit with me in the quiet long enough…
You’ll hear the lock click.
You’ll get the stories. The real ones.
The ones I don’t tell out loud.
That’s why I write.
Because sometimes it’s easier to leave the door open on paper.
There’s space here.
No sharp eyes. No sudden hands.
Just black and white, and a little time to breathe.
So if you really want to know me—read.
The truth’s not hidden.
It’s just tucked in quiet corners.
Waiting.
The CJBuzz 