If I had invisible ink, I would use it to write my story. Within ourselves, we carry large vials of blind man's liquid dye that, on occasion, becomes visible through our own will, when we let others read or listen to some of the things we've been keeping inside.

If it were up to me, had I been given invisible ink, I'd use it on countless pages to write about what happened in the past, what's going on in the present, and what I hope for the future. Without the fear of the pages ever being found, read, rejected or accepted, misunderstood or embraced.

I'd write pages telling people how I truly feel about them, without enhancing or damaging their egos.

I would only confuse them by giving them the seemingly blank, empty sheets of paper.

However, to me, the words would be there.