it’s a privilege to have someone you trust so much that you have secrets to share with them.
once, i had quiet sorrows, a reservoir of emotions and sentiments that i saved so i could divulge them only to someone i loved. but when that love went unrequited i found myself left with shreds of the remaining secrets i didn’t share…and they broke me.
i don’t have that many private thoughts anymore. my views on the world, my work, life in general…those are made known to everyone who would care to listen, or to read. i know what i like and i indulge in the things that make me happy, bringing with me people who find pleasure in the same things. i read and recommend books that flesh out my life. i answer questions truthfully, bluntly. i empathise, sympathise. if you want to know something about me, i’ll tell you. i’ll write about it.
and why would i prefer to be an open book when being a mystery would fit better into the plot of a romantic comedy in which every woman desires to play the leading part? because those shreds of secrets left unshared
were are still an unbearable burden to carry.
i never again want to save parts of my soul for someone who has yet to materialise. i don’t believe in that kind of hope.