Questa è Enida

Someone asked me the other day as to why I write about my private and personal life on the World Wide Web for the whole wide world to see.

I answered quite simply…

“Am I not a part of that whole wide world?”

Yes, I must admit that I have been writing because I have been read. But being read alone does not make me write or want to. I write mostly for me when I feel so much and I cannot contain, when I have so much to say and no one there to share. I write when I have trouble telling myself that it is my life I am living. It is not easy to tell that Enida I know that she is the now and the here of the stories she writes. (I have tried convincing her that she is her.)

And so I, Enida the Questa è Enida, accept that I only have one life here. It is imperfect, it is short and it is no one else’s but mine. And lately, I confess, it is downright miserable. If writing about my imperfect short miserable life – phase by phase – makes me learn more about myself and my capacity to learn… all the more life to me!

And along the way, if what I write bestows me lessons, friends, love and strength… hey, at the end of this life I have nothing but lessons learned, friends made, love found and strength gained. And along the way, if what I write touches some others who are just trying their best to live their one life out there, teaches some other lessons to some who are just trying their best to learn their life’s lessons out there… why should I be private about my life?

I am a part of that whole wide world. I am real and I am here. And I can see me as a part of that whole wide world, tangled in the web and weeping. If that someone who asked me as to why I write about my private and personal life for the whole world to see cannot see me as a part of that whole wide world… I think his world is not wide enough. And I am weeping for him that is never here nor now. And him that never sees me.