silences we bear

I've been talking a lot to a very close friend recently - you know who you are without the need for names - and curiously enough, I've been revealing a lot of myself to her. I don't really know why myself, and my mind is tired after an entire day's worth of work, so I can't quite figure it out as of now.

For want of a better word, my intuition (any philosophers out there, forgive me) tells me that I really do trust said friend to a great extent, so much so that I'm willing to reveal my secrets to her. Which naturally led me to wonder about the individual secrets that we keep: restrained sexual lusts, silent yens for someone special to reach out to us, an illegal/shameful deed, silent desires, voiceless dreams.

These secrets, aspects of our personality, lie dormant and are frequently suppressed, oppressed and furtively nursed - much to our chagrin. Whether we like them or not, we each have these secrets. Some gnaw away at us incessantly, some rear their ugly heads when we least expect them to, while some insidiously pick away at our minds every second of our waking lives; others make us smile inwardly to ourselves, provide that warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of your tummy, or make you feel... lighter.

Yet, each and every secret is a cross we bear. By its very nature, a secret is solitary. Relentlessly present. Never flinching from investigation. Arouses itself, feeds itself. When we decide to reveal just one of them to a trusted confidante, is the secret any easier to bear?

I don't know. I think it is, because I feel lighter. It's akin to constantly attempting to paint a landscape utilizing every possible hue and shade of just one color - one can only portray a fraction of the landscape on paper. The richness and lustre of the desired painting is lost, filtered out by the sheer lack of colors. Everything becomes something becomes nothing. Gertrude Stein aptly described it in her poem Sacred Emily:

Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

A secret is but a cross we bear in silence. A secret by another name is still a secret. Call it unspoken speech, silent noise, concealed publicities. It remains. The secret persists.

Voicing the secret - literally breathing life into it - to an empty room, to a trusted confidante, to water spiralling down the sink, silences it. The secret moves from confidentiality to enunciation to silence, except this time, the silence is still, muted, taciturn.

Revealing my secret to aforementioned very close friend made this cross easier to bear. You may not understand what it's like to be like me, but you're trying.

Thank you for talking, for asking, for helping.

Thank you for being here when you did not need to be.

Thank you for silencing my secret. You know who you are, and I love you very much.

(I owe you bacon and eggs.)