Leaving a mark

There comes to a point in one’s life when not every thought needs to be expressed publicly.
It’s funny but almost every woman in my life has, casually or otherwise, complained about how I’ve never shared anything about me. A case in point, just today on WA (verbatim):
“U never share a single shit of ur life”
There are thoughts, memories, experiences and observations I want to write about, for posterity sake. It’s not about sharing them to my children (when I have them in future [1]); there will be enough conversations where the aforementioned stuff will be woven into, as part of sharing my experiences and lessons in life.
Some things deserve to be preserved, even if words cannot conjure the moments perfectly that you can relive them. Yet sometimes if we dig deeper, think harder and attempt to shut out the ambient noise more, we might catch a fleeting glimpse, a lingering smell and the accompanying emotions.
We leave marks in our life – unknowingly sometimes – and allow others to leave theirs – unbeknownst to them sometimes. We are wont to do the same for every person who crosses our paths; some harder, more intense and even brutal than others.
Like the one when I was attempting a three-point turn in a dead-end street full of prostitutes (and men looking to satiate their “thirst”, of course) while taking a friend on a tour of the “dark” [2] side.
These are, perhaps, not tales that these womenfolk thought they want me to regale them with. Or that the words do not come with some imagery that would give them a punch, and so it’s easy to forget.
It’s not that the words have stopped or will stop. It’s about drawing a line – imaginary but no less true – here [3].
[1] I really do, even if it’s a quiver full.
[2] It’s in more ways than one.
[3] I may allow them to fall out of my grasp – not clumsily but deliberately – from time to time.