It's cold outside. Won't you come in?

To all those like me:

I’ve seen you hiding in the crowd, pretending that you can disappear. I’ve seen your eyes in reflections, eyes always cast down. You aren’t mute, but your lips are silent. You aren’t blind, but you’ve built a wall between yourself and the world. I wonder what goes on behind that wall. How many thoughts go unsaid, wounds bleed untended, victories go unsung, and loves stay unrequited?

You seek the corners of the room, the fringes of the crowd. You smile and nod, but are screaming on the inside, crawling inside your skin. If you could, you’d blanket yourself in shadows, walk the earth as a phantom, a permanent silhouette. You’re on the outside, looking in.

If I knock on your door, will you answer me? If I come looking for you, will you let me find you? Or will you stay hidden, safe behind your walls?

I have my own walls, you know. I have my own shadows I crawl under, my own corners to occupy. But I won’t go back there, not again. I’m not content to stand on the outside, not willing to merely look in. Because hiding from pain brings more pain, and escape is another form of death. I’ve inflicted enough pain on myself, bled myself dry all those years of hiding, all those years of dying.

I’ve seen you hiding in the crowd, pretending that you can disappear.

I have a message for you: You’re not alone.

It's cold outside. Won't you come in?

Sincerely,

Tom