I’ve always been obsessed with secrets. I think that’s because I’m so consumed with my own.
Some people love telling me their secrets. Because usually, I ask them to. I’m one of those curious people who would contemplate reading a best friends diary if it was left out in the open. The weird part is, I don’t think of my curiousity as a bad quality. I would never go searching through someone’s email or phone- I am only interested in the secrets that a person holds inside of them. I couldn’t be bothered with secrets of infidelity or gossip- the kinds of stories or messages that people write to themselves in journals are what really pique my curiosity.
But apart from searching for secrets, I like the idea of being able to convince people to bear their souls to me. To tell me their secrets willingly. And surprisingly enough, people usually do.
Only recently have I met someone who won’t share their secrets. It makes me feel detached from them. Part of their body feels elsewhere- untouchable. In a way, I feel like I’ve failed. If I can’t get someone to completely open up to me, then I consider myself unneeded and useless, and more importantly: exposed.
My life has approached a wonderful point of uncensored truthfulness. I never consciously hide anything anymore. I’ve told most of my stores, maybe not to everyone, but nonetheless they are out there somewhere, floating around.
My secrets are all over (un-secretly existing), and maybe it makes me feel better when I learn that other’s have secrets too, that they just put theirs in boxes.
“I’ve never told anyone this…”
“You’re the only person who knows this…”
Is it selfish, my love of these words?
Of course it is.
I’m not entitled to know anything. I just can’t help but want to know more.