Genuine.

My blog got an unexpected compliment today. It was described to me as "genuine," an adjective I don't think I've ever been given. I don't think I've ever been given that adjective because I don't think it's ever been true, at least of me in real life. There's always something under the surface, something you can't see, something I keep for just me and pretend it doesn't exist when you talk to me. Oh, I'm happy enough- maybe a little quieter these days, but me just the same, and I keep strict composure, as I always have.

Maybe he's right. Maybe I am genuine. Maybe this is me now, this disembodied voice, devoid of affect, just a collection of inaudible words, just here. It's not like I go anywhere else these days.
I'm more real here than I am with you, and it's kind of a paradox because here you can't see me. Here you don't listen, you watch; here, you see what I choose to show you, and here, you'll see more of me than you ever will in real life, and yet you're not seeing me at all. You're seeing my words, a few of my thoughts transcribed onto a screen where symbols and descriptions try and do them justice, and at the center of it all is me, which I don't really understand. Is this what I am? I don't talk much anymore; does that make me words? Words meant only to be read, never spoken- does that mean I'm words at all, or is this just a pathetic attempt to matter, a pathetic attempt to shield myself from the fact that maybe I don't?

"Maybe I am silence after all," she doesn't say.

And I guess he's right; if it turns out I am silence, what could be more quiet, more genuine than the letters on your screen that spell the words I never meant to speak?