I talk to you, try to explain things to you because you ask, because you tell me what I've said is insufficient; I just sit there, as I try to find the words, wondering, what, do you want me to be the way I was when I was younger, do you want every feeling served on a plate?
And it occurs to me that, though I was young, perhaps I had the right view on things back then; it certainly was easier to share every impulse, every idea in my head. I cannot, anymore. I am not secretive; only wary about my intimate dignity.