He used to be a playful person — always joking around, never taking things too seriously. He'd worn his playfulness like a vibrant cloak, convinced it was a disguise, a mask to shield the real, more serious self beneath.
The thing about being a playful character is you can hurt others with your words unintentionally. He'd learned this the hard way, his careless jabs often leaving unintended wounds. He'd been a talkative without thinking about his words, a whirlwind of opinions and observations, rarely considering the impact they might have on others.
But beneath the surface, a quiet unease simmered. Was this playful persona truly him, or was it a carefully crafted role he played to navigate the world?
Then, a slow awakening began. He realized the truth: his playfulness wasn't a disguise; it was the vibrant hue that colored his very essence.
This newfound self-acceptance, however, wasn't without its adjustments; he started to shape his character. The shift was subtle at first, a tightening of the reins, a newfound awareness of the weight of his words. The room, once filled with his boisterous commentary, began to quiet. He started to listen more, to observe, to weigh each sentence before it tumbled from his lips. The playful jabs, once so effortless, now felt sharp, almost cruel. He learned to choose his battles, to let some things go unsaid.
Now, silence was his companion. He found himself drawn to quiet corners, the hum of the city fading into a distant lullaby. Words, when they did come, carried the weight of meaning, each one carefully chosen, a precious stone polished to a perfect gleam. The room, once filled with the echoes of his laughter, now held a different kind of energy – a quiet intensity, a sense of deep listening, a profound respect for the power of the spoken word.
This is a short story about me.
