I’ve no choice but to keep a lot of secrets. You may read that and think I have choice but you’re wrong. I am talking about my own secrets here. That other people’s secrets are kept is a given.
This week in the midst of the pressure I decided to tell someone some of my secrets. It’s been about five years since I talked to anyone new so I guess this is a big deal although once I start to talk, it’s hard to get to me stop.
The person I spoke with was shocked. I am never ever what people think I am or who people think I am but what was interesting was I spilled all this stuff and then I said, “You see why I can’t talk. Everything I just told you is true and it’s just barely believable. I could probably say *this and be believed,” I said, picking one stunning item from the pile. “But if I said, this or this or this or this on top of that,” I said mentioning other things I’d just talked about, ‘well, I’d no longer be believable.”
The person agreed.
“Well here’s the thing,” I said, wishing I had a cigarette though I’ve not smoked in twenty years. “What I just told you is not even two percent of what I could tell you and it is already too much. Can you imagine that? I’ve got another ninety eight percent. As you can see, it’s just not possible to have conversations. My life is too far out and it’s been this way all my life. I was born to this so what am I supposed to do about that? I’ve no choice but to let people dream me into whatever they want. Do you see a choice?”