Am I wrong.

Ernest Hemingway once said, that the rarest thing he knew in intelligent people was happiness. I got an email from a friend today and it boiled down to one simple question: Who are you really, Stefan? I don’t know, I simply don’t. My very own me is so fragile that I am afraid to uncover it. I am so unsure of myself, so insecure when it comes to things that count. I am afraid of the world and I am afraid of the people. I just play my part, really, sometimes I feel – I’m on a huge stage called life, looking down at the people watching the play. There’s no escape but the last curtain. I listen to myself making small-talk and it simply won’t work. I never show that part of myself to anyone, but the people reading mindwork. Sanna might be the only one, who ever got an in-depth impression on who I really am. I am small and afraid of almost everything. Or – am I wrong?

I believe.