I Have Secrets That Will Never Be Uttered
At the breakfast table, looking at the floor, this is what I'm doing. My friend wasn‘t satisfied, speak the truth is not always enough to stir "young" minds, always looking for a future gossip. "But you're so mysterious!", she said.
Mysterious, an ambiguous word. It reminds me a movie, the girl almost got in trouble for being sneaky, mysterious. But the mystery of what? Sometimes I see my life as an open magazine on the other hand, where the pages are flipped, without certain attention. Sometimes I forget to keep a secret (about myself) just for me. Yes, because secrets are dangerous, once they are free from thoughts, formulated in words, molded by the lips and affirmed to someone (or worse, to yourself) they become real, true.
This is the only reason of my selfishness: I don‘t want to share something that is still under „suspicion“, until I know it is what I want. I am careful and I prefer to handle my own things by myself.
There are several kinds of secrets, of course. Some could be shared, but I would always be careful with whom I would. Others secrets, I just throw to a wasteland called oblivion. Everything depends on the good sense of who keeps it. And one thing is for sure, I would never tell other people's secrets, they die with me.
Counting on fingers, five people I trust, who keeps a treasure or they deserve, one day, to receive a chance. If I would take all the five, the pool water would flow and only a puddle would stay, which I wouldn‘t share with anyone either. When we live with people who notice us or say they care for, or even love, we end up giving a smile a lot, in the form of tinkering with the hair, in the way of walking, the dimples on the face, a different glow in the eyes or in written secrets words. Details that are noticed for the ones who knows how to decipher them. They think they know you completely, but they don't. And I prefer this way, I always keep the ground under my feet.
Maybe I'm mysterious. Maybe not. Maybe I will tell different pieces about myself to different people, and what is a secret to one, is a mystery to the other.
Mysterious, an ambiguous word. It reminds me a movie, the girl almost got in trouble for being sneaky, mysterious. But the mystery of what? Sometimes I see my life as an open magazine on the other hand, where the pages are flipped, without certain attention. Sometimes I forget to keep a secret (about myself) just for me. Yes, because secrets are dangerous, once they are free from thoughts, formulated in words, molded by the lips and affirmed to someone (or worse, to yourself) they become real, true.
This is the only reason of my selfishness: I don‘t want to share something that is still under „suspicion“, until I know it is what I want. I am careful and I prefer to handle my own things by myself.
There are several kinds of secrets, of course. Some could be shared, but I would always be careful with whom I would. Others secrets, I just throw to a wasteland called oblivion. Everything depends on the good sense of who keeps it. And one thing is for sure, I would never tell other people's secrets, they die with me.
Counting on fingers, five people I trust, who keeps a treasure or they deserve, one day, to receive a chance. If I would take all the five, the pool water would flow and only a puddle would stay, which I wouldn‘t share with anyone either. When we live with people who notice us or say they care for, or even love, we end up giving a smile a lot, in the form of tinkering with the hair, in the way of walking, the dimples on the face, a different glow in the eyes or in written secrets words. Details that are noticed for the ones who knows how to decipher them. They think they know you completely, but they don't. And I prefer this way, I always keep the ground under my feet.
Maybe I'm mysterious. Maybe not. Maybe I will tell different pieces about myself to different people, and what is a secret to one, is a mystery to the other.
By:
deleted
Age:
26-30
