One time, long ago, he was sitting at a table, just sitting there, never knowing that his life would change forever.
There once was a boy who met a girl, the child, the child of promise. But he did not wish it, nor did he see it fulfilled.
Changed forever. A moment comes, a moment goes. It is there, then it is gone, now and forever. Never to be, never to know.
There once was a man who met a woman. The same boy, the same girl. Never knowing, never being, never seeing.
Never. A lonely word, never. There once was a boy, there once was a girl.
For what? What is it to me what takes place between these two? Is it nothing or everything? I do not know, nor do I wish to know. Who is the boy? Who is the girl? It might be me, it might be someone else. I know neither here nor there. Secrets.
I wonder what it means, there are people out there whom I do not know, yet I care about? How can this be? Secrets. How can you love what you do not know? Secrets. Yet, I believe that those I’ve learned of, and that others whose names even I know not, are precious. But why? I am honestly a little puzzled by it.
Secrets, secrets, everywhere, secrets.
I need to see my desire for secrecy to be vanquished. It is a barrier to me being all that I’m meant to be. It is a character flaw of mine to be so secretive as to not even be open and honest about the things I love. How many people do not know how precious they are because they are kept as secrets. Compliments never payed, joys never known, sorrows never shared. Blessings withheld. Secrets.
For what? To what end are secrets to us that we do not often seem to share them with those we love. How many secrets will go with us, with me, to the grave?
Are they worth it?
Secrets, they die with us, and sometimes, they live with us. Secrets, sometimes terrible, but also, sometimes wonderful. Secrets.
What is known about me, both by those who know me well, and those who do not? Secrets.
What are my joys, my sorrows, and everything else that makes me me? Secrets.
In a sense it is like I so detest my humanity that anything that makes me so endearingly human is repulsive to me, something I have to hide, a shame to me. Desiring to be more then human, I become repulsed by the human find I am. Secrets. It is a lie, yes, but lies once believed are hard to dispel. So we hide, we keep our secrets, desperate to be seen, to be known, but more terrified of being seen then our desire to be known. So we run, we run so far. But wherever we go, we are there. Secrets.
Do not be ashamed of being human, God himself became human. If nothing else, I may delight in that.
What is more, have you seen these people? They’re amazing! They’re brilliant, they’re beautiful! I need to not be ashamed of my humanity, it is a glorious thing to be.
Secrets. Are they worth it?