poetic

There is something poetic about going to a poetry night with a failing voice.   Sore and raw.  Where it is a struggle to speak.  Then leaving so tired yet so inspired that it hurts to swallow your words.  I can speak with my hands so this shouldn’t be a problem.  I can express my inner most thoughts, secrets and confessions and lay them out in space.  Leave them there as an offering of myself.  But when no one understands, they hang, like a morning fog between us that just won’t clear.

So I have sat in silence for five days.  My brain all a haze.  These thoughts wafting through my head like smoke, slipping through my fingers.  These thoughts that won’t behave, won’t sit quietly on a page.  These thoughts that are not ready to be heard. 

I need to be patient with these thoughts.

can you keep a secret

I have a secret.  I could list every person who knows.  That is the best thing to do with a secret, periodically take a mental roll call of the keepers of the undisclosed. Make sure new names on the list are checked with character references.  ‘Does not associate with other involved parties.’  I can’t let it get out.  This whole operation would fold.  Every time you bring a new person into the inner circle you lose a little bit of control.  You give it to someone else. You strip off a layer of armor.  My heart needs all the protection it can get.  I’m so careful I sometimes keep the secret from myself.  I can’t risk it.  So I will continue to hold my tongue, to keep mum, to keep quiet, to hide the effects.  To keep the peace.