Secrets. They’re not something I find incredibly exciting, because often times the secret is being kept from me. I won’t lie, I’m not exactly the most trust worthy person when it comes to a juicy story or some jaw dropping info. It moves the plot along to have people like me just informing everyone else what is going on. I understand the need for secrecy on some delicate issues, and I understand what it means to use discretion when talking about stuff, but when it comes down to it, I just really don’t see the point. A secret should be something terribly shameful that no one else should know about.
I’ve had my share of secrets, but nothing I didn’t eventually just come out with entirely. And last night I kept thinking to myself, what is my secret? Do I have any personal secrets right now? I can’t think of anything too dramatic. And I like it that way. Having something bottled up inside can feel like you’ve just had too many chilupas at taco bell, but now your constipated. That’s just a bloated mess.
So I don’t like secrets, I don’t keep secrets, I don’t have secrets, but suddenly I am a secret. And this adds a whole new dimension to the equation. The recently over played radio song by the All-American Rejects is called “Dirty Little Secret”, and while pop punk usually isn’t a genre I find myself enjoying, this song just rings true for me. To top it all off, the video for the song features post cards which all have secrets. And it’s no coincidence that Beth loves www.postsecret.com, a website devoted to secrets annonimously being put on post cards.
So it’s like, I’ve been plastered to a note card, hung up with no name, and while everyone knows what’s up, it’s still something taboo and not supposed to be known. And how does the other person in this situation feel? He’s keeping me a secret, so there must be a logical fear, or reasoning for doing this. I’ve never been in his place. I was never so embarassed about this sort of thing. And to be honest it makes me somewhat irritated to be camflouged. I’m not being denied or forgotten, just dressed up and made unnoticable. And maybe that’s why I felt like I had to shout about it. Maybe I needed to feel a sense of accomplishment, a sense of some emotion. I had to let something out. The emotional constipation was just too much. But now I’ve gone and just crapped out everything I had and basically dumped it all on him. That’s not fair.
I fucked up. And I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair of me to tell anything to anyone, and I wish I hadn’t. But it’s the nature of me. I’m an open book for the most part, and that’s something I love about myself. But I can see now that I needed to be considering more then myself, taking care of you and not just my inflated ego. 2 weeks ago, I really thought something was changing for me. I hope it still does.