It's mind-blowing how many people are invisible to us. That is, until we need something from them. It makes me wonder how many people I'm passing by on the street each day that could enrich my life. It makes me question the reasons why I write certain people off or box them into rigid stereotypes. Interpreting people is so difficult.

Not many people see the real me. So much of myself, parts critical to my identity, never see the light of day. The opposite is true as well; I don't see the 'real' in other people. And that scares me. Because as I trek through life, I don't want to encounter artificial projections of people, I want to experience people. Doing that is quite the challenge; there's a mélange of acts, masks and facades to filter out - and the only real filter is time spent together, in discussion and shared experience. An expensive (time is money) proposition.

If I want to experience real people, I've got to be real with other people as well. But how? I'm not necessarily overtly superficial. But I do what everyone else does -I take protective measures to guard the sensitive insecurities that gnaw at my self-worth. Even if I eradicate that habit and act as I truly am, how can my cover (covers are just one page after all) illustrate the content of all the pages within?