Cracks sometimes appear in the eggshell-thin veneer covering our inner life. She worries about her weight. He is a closet racist. That one goes home and cries at the end of every day. This one drinks himself to sleep. How far apart are our inner selves from our outer selves. But the cracks are still there for those who care to see. How well we try to hide what we fear others will look down upon us for doing or thinking. How horrifying it would be for our secrets to be broadcast to those around us. How would they react? Would they shun us? Or would they simply see themselves in us and turn away, ashamed. Few people cut through the gelatinous layer of public faces we see everyday. Who really wants to dig around and ferret out what the woman in the next cubicle over worries about. We’ve got our problems; they’ve got theirs…what use is there in taking on any more burdens than those we already carry? Well, there is a lot of use in that actually. Pain often subsides with release. Spoken words assuage. Physical touch relaxes tension. This culture we live in is so closed-off. People don’t talk to each other. My evidence is anecdotal at best, but I feel it all the same.