I'm full of secrets these days. Bloated.
I tell you, it's tough being me. I say that with only half my tongue in my cheek. And I know! It's tough being me for more than the usual, obvious and rudimentary reasons. I know. I can hear the tittering from here.
Anyway, these secrets. Some are of the most delicious and excellent kind. Some are not. Some are just the way it is. Some make me want to bust a gut; some, make me want to smoke a cigarette, or full-on carton.
Regardless, I am a very, very good keeper of special and precious-to-people stuff. People tell me things, or I happen to guess. I'm a good guesser. And although I have never, ever laid claim to having even one well-developed muscle in my entire body, I have one really solid shoulder. Two, actually.
I don't know what it is. I think, that despite me going through my day with a seemingly Pollock-painting like personality, I am ultimately very, very private and protective of self and the things that mean the most to me - and those I love. Maybe people who consider me a friend, inherently sense this about me. Of the people I consider friends, there are but a couple that I tell almost everything to. There are none that hear it all. That sounds awful, but it has nothing to do with my trust in them, and much to do with the way I'm built. It's a good thing they're not like me, because I would torment the living daylights out of them. Bugger it out of 'em. All's not fair. For my part, I can be expansive and encompassing, and soft and broad. And short-fused, prickly and maddeningly elusive. I'm so glad these friends like me anyway; and I'm so lucky that I get to love them.
I had a really good conversation recently with a friend. We talked about our pasts and experiences, and loves, good and otherwise - and although I pride myself on my stealthy brass band maneuverings, he noted that he felt I was quite guarded with my heart. I was a little taken aback, as in that moment, I had been somewhat exposed as a baton wielding fraud, and he, as quite the perceptive chap. At the time, although surprised, I hadn't minded so much, as is the case with that good ol' in vino veritas; but as the wine wore off, the truth part felt too naked and known. To the listener, probably no big deal; one man's trash is another man's treasure, or vice-versa. There are probably a lot more people like me than I'm lead to believe. Than I would know.
I love people. Love people watching, and observing. I love that we never really quite know what's going on behind closed doors. Behind the curtains. Sometimes beneath, there are bells and whistles and sometimes, there might just be some surprises and secrets. The good, quiet kind - if we're really, really fortunate. Sometimes when the shades are pulled open, and the light lands and dances on those darker nooks and crannies, the person standing holding the sash somehow recognizes everything they see. I like that idea.
Well, it's that time. Late enough. Blinds closed. Curtains drawn again. And I realize I've lied already. Maybe more than once. The one I will admit to: there is, after all, someone who knows everything. My cat. And she's not talking. I think.
Oh, and she wrote this, not me. She just can't type. Or so it would seem. She's a crafty one, that moggy. She just never leaves those curtains alone. And that might not be a bad thing after all.
