Keeping Secrets

I am not much of a fact fan. I believe in what Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said, "I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose"

I'll extend this gratuitously to assume he meant women too. The computer and internet are my favorite inventions of all time, because they free the mind from the necessity of enormous quantities of fact storage and allow it vastly more interesting worlds of existance. The fact pride parade need not intrude anymore in the garden of possibilities.

My idea of ideal life is more like a video game than a Hun conquest. Moving from virtual region to region in a leisurely stroll or liquid dance, uncovering every secret by sheer exploration, regularly saving the most precious ones in my mind, then relinquishing all possessions and moving on.

Secrets are the only things in this fleeting life I call mine, they will stay and go with me. I don't collect stuff or money or even experiences. I collect little fragments of time that are the most interesting and mysterious, and treasure them. Little glimpses into forsaken lands.

There is something about a secret I just love. Memories and thoughts saved as passing whispers of songs and spells, never shared, never forgotten. Secrets are another dimension of my psyche, that walk alongside me, laughing delightedly at things everyone else has failed to see or is busily pretending not to.

I keep secrets like a museum keeps masterpieces, I love and preserve them, guard them closely, and display fakes for the viewing public. It is not a conscious thought process that allows me to be secretive, it is a primal pleasure. I love everything about mystery.

My favorite secrets are those flashes of ideas that emerge from passing thoughts. They come to me in fleeting imagines of pure magic. I am afraid of even articulating them for fear of taking something away from their perfection. I hug them to sleep with a delicious joy of existence, grateful for being allowed them

I try to invest every spare inch of my mind in a reality I found, far richer than the hologram of ourselves projected to a parched world, Clear vast quantities of room to allow the free rush of an uncensored river of consciousness to flow where it will. There is so much room for error in everything that they all join together to form a seductive parallel world. I thrive on these various illusions mistaken for solidities and vice versa.

I don't ask for trust, it is not easy to trust keepers of secrets, they are the unknowns of a paranoid world. I understand. But it isn't cheating or lying, that is misdirection. I simply don't direct, its not my role in life. My role, it is a secret. I love that