You, Understood

The danger of writing rather intimate biographical pieces is that you (read: the author of this piece) don’t exist in a vacuum and have a moral obligation to respect the privacy of those people who have left a mark on your life. It is a tricky field to navigate, but one you must.

So if you (read: the people I will soon be writing about) are afraid, do not worry. It is not my place, or even desire, to drop names. In the end, the intent of these reflections is to take a closer look at myself. Even as I ponder your purpose in my life, the end goal is to talk about me. So you will simply remain ‘you,’ a faceless mask to all but those who already know these stories.

And I’m sorry if you (read: the person reading this) find this tendency to be disorienting or exasperating. But imagine it like this; these are the private letters I should have written, the words I would have spoken if I had only earlier found my voice. I wish to put you in the position of these unnamed individuals, let you become them if only for a few hundred words at a time.

But before I dive in, I must apologize to you (read: the people in my life who have left such an impact that redacting your name can not shroud who you are). You are the blood that flows through me. Without you I’m nothing. The point of this project is to talk about me. But talking about me is just another way of talking about you.

Or maybe, rather, the point is to talk about us.

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