My Brother and My Sister Don't Speak to Me--But I Don't Blame Them

AND IT MIGHT GO ON FOREVER UNSAID

Do I care? I think others wonder that of me. I think the few individuals for whom I truly, genuinely do care for, even they aren't sure. How closed up am I? How introverted that they can't tell. I wonder if maybe just one among them understands--Can see pass my code and read me as I am. Because I do care, in my own way. However, I don't blame them if they can't see, it because I don't show it. Like all things that mean anything to me, I like to keep them, selfishly, inside to myself. But maybe my definition isn't valid. Perhaps there is no care if it is not visible. Its action v. thought, which one is real? Are we who we think we are or what we do, what and how others see us.

I don't have answers. I am only locked in my mind and from there, see things as I am accustomed to making sense of them. Though true, that with age and its accompanied experience the faculty for making sense of these things expands but for the most part questions answered lead to newer questions asked.

I wish the people I care for could know that but maybe since I don't want to change the way I express myself, then maybe its true, that I really don't care. Maybe thats the action confessing the truth about thought.