The Hiding Places
I grew up in a home where my siblings were older, and my parents both worked—the key hidden under the mat, and the house silent when I arrived. I had no choice but to invent my own trustworthy invisible friends and playground. So, I created them all in my secret hiding places. My friends were made up superheroes, and my playground consisted of closets filled with old clothes, an attic crowded with books and relics, a basement complete with secret spaces, and a backyard shed filled with tools. As a child, these became my safe world. They were a place no one could see the person I was; no government or authority could reprove me because everything that happened there was imaginary and secret.
Kids are powerful and resilient in this way. They will always devise a place to transfer their emotions and feel safe. All children form a world of their own among the ashes that life hands them—no matter how small or great.
My world consisted of writing poetry, songs, imaginary stories, invisible ink, secret notes hidden in the rafters for someone to find someday. This is the world I took with me. It’s the safest place I know—my personal hiding place. Still, when my outside world is falling apart, when the taunting fears of my future get loud, I disappear. I disappear into the world I built when I was a child—simply because no one can harm me there. My sword is my pen, and my shield is my pad.
You may see a man hiding behind his tattoos, jewelry, and hat, but if you look closer, you’ll see a war.
By Ron Marinari
#transparency #truth #hiding #writing #imagination #war