I wrote yesterday about why I don’t share as much as others.
Today, I was thinking about how sharing actually takes something away from me.
When I share something I love with all my heart, and the person I’m sharing with doesn’t get it — usually through no fault of their own — my experience of the thing(s) I love actually changes. The feeling I have for it is dulled, “dinged”. A little tarnished. That’s both from the other person not mirroring my ecstasy over esoterica, as well as a sense on my own part that I’ve failed somehow.
I’ve failed to convey my joy to them.
I’ve failed to show them just how and why something is worthy of ecstatic transport.
I’ve failed to connect with them in a way that does justice to my experience.
And that taints the experience for me. So, anytime I think again of that once-special thing, it’s not the same as it was before. It’s just not the same.
And a little more of the light in my life has been snuffed out. Things are less bright for me, than they were before.
And there’s nothing I can do to get it back.
So, I don’t share.
Not as often as others want me to, or I even want to. It’s just not worth the risk to me, the risk of loss, the risk of disappointment, the risk of embarrassment.
So, I keep to myself, and my joy is sheltered. It remains complete.