  I've spent the last hour or so reading other people's posts. Some made me laugh, some made me smile, some mad eme jealous and several were just empty for me. Then I came back and read my own - trying to see what picture of myself I had drawn to the anonymous stranger reading me. I realize now what a distorted image it is. In my posts, I sound unhappy. Unfulfilled. I sound like a woman obsessed with her career and what people think of her (and to those who could read my Hebrew poems - with sex). Is that really who I am? An acquaintance who had read my posts said they were very ... "me". Are they really? Because when I re-read them, I don't think they reflect the myriad of who I am. This bolg displays my insecruties. And I olny write when I am depressed, or concerned, or unstable. I think that is the reason this blog will never really mirror who I am.
I don't come here when I feel loved and protected (which I do, every day). I don't come here when I'm content. ther's no point in writing then. I revel in my hapiness then. So no, these posts are not me. They are one piece of me. The piece that needs to be put in writing for me to acknowledge it, to dissect it and analyze it, to udnerstand it better. That other piece - the strong, secure, beautiful, loving piece? That one is out there in the real world. 
