femme mystérieuse

I mentioned the other day in a reply to a comment that I highly value myself on being extremely enigmatic. The truth is that in my voice, my behaviour and even the way I look, I am anything but enigmatic. I hate lying and am pretty open in most respects. Maybe it's part of the grass is always greener syndrome that I've always wanted to be some femme mystérieuse: thin, dark sillhouette, huge sunglasses, husky voice and inexplicable allure.

But in less obvious ways I do leave a lot unsaid, in the sort of way that no-one notices. Maybe it's because I myself am not sure that I fully understand what I am thinking? But I don't like keeping anything back, and if I don't say it out loud, I write it down. So in that way, what I write down is much more telling about the actual me because it's all those parts which haven't been broadcasted to the world. At the same time, aren't both aspects, the spoken and unspoken vital in forming who we are? I am not entirely an 'anony-blogger' - I post photos - albeit in fragments - and if a regular commenter really wanted to know my name for some reason, I'd be happy to e-mail them.

But I am also not comfortable putting everything about me on here, and I've always thought that's because I don't want to be google-able. But now I'm wondering, is it maybe more to do with the fact that even when my posts aren't typically 'dear diary', I almost always inevitably put a piece of my soul into whatever I write. Could adding the superficial layer, for want of a better term, closer to full picture of me than I want to see?

Today I had to leave a cryptic clue behind in the card for a secret santa gift I am giving. I was not feeling very witty at the time, so I made this image:

It's ginger like me. It's an angel, like my name. And it bears gifts, as I do. Maybe this silly image is as telling about the real me as any other picture at all.