The most sacred of secrets are those that cannot be told not because they’re supposed to be hidden, but because they can only be felt, exchanged through a shared experienced, dreamt of when we are deep in our sleep, recalled alone in a movie in our minds.
These secrets are the ones shared by lovers, with whom we intimately share our bodies with. I mean, you can use all the similes and metaphors and all there is to confess to your BFF how it went down but that’s just how far it goes; in the end, you’re the only one who knows everything.
If this sort of secret were a heinous crime tried in court, it’s not being the star witness to it; it’s not even enough being the true motivation of the perpetrator; it is being the trauma of the victim. Everyone else is simply one who has read the headline on the newspaper.
Vivien Marie Lopez