Books without Authors

Sometimes, I think people are like books. All it takes to read them is a set of eyes. Other times, I reject that perspective out of hand; people are complex beings whose lives cannot be understood without being the person you wish to understand. And even then, there's no assurance.

I need look no farther than myself to know that I cannot be read like a book. I cannot be understood, no matter how much a person might try. I cannot even understand myself. An outsider has no chance.

And sometimes, depending on my mood, I don't wish to be understood. Not now, not ever, not by anyone. I'm satisfied being a conundrum.

Other times, I want so desperately to be understood I can taste the salt on my tongue as my tears betray my stoicism about life.

I have no choice, as it turns out. Someday, someone will understand, like it or not. Someday, my veil of privacy will be lifted like a sheet from a body in a makeshift morgue. And someday someone will conclude there's no understanding of a person's mind, that complex beast that hides beneath the scalp like the last yellow-bellied woodpeck hides in the thickest forests.

We think we know so much, but we know so very, very little.