I regard them as clutter, dusty tchotchkes and cracked souvenirs. Spoiled milk or wooly rotten fruit in the fridge. They are prisons, cages of lies, noise and pretend. Rooted, gnarled and historic ones are a cancer -- silently, ruthlessly disfiguring, from the inside out.
I don’t like secrets. I hate secrets. HATE THEM. or maybe its just today.
I am desperately thinking now of a secret that has been positive in my life. There certainly has been delightful surprises and wonderous coincidences. But a secret? I hear secret, I feel trauma. I feel my soul being trespassed upon. I recall adults who’ve taken too much. I picture a little girl with long black hair being slapped with "secrets."
I prefer omissions. Even some lies. But that's another thought for another time.