My secrets had homes at one time, but like a door in the house of four winds the secrets had no chance against force [be the force suggestion, or rumour, or cynicism]. My tongue became loose on the subject of secrets and honesty, and as any writer of worth would confess influences soon infest the imagination. My diaries had to fend of a flurry of fireflies, hungry and copiously celebrating an ability to multiply by hundreds in minutes. It would be like a grown man attempting to defeat a flock of sparrows.
Consequences beyond my reason or control settled dust upon even the most pointed of corners among the hurried scrawl of thoughts and summaries in my diaries. I am annoyed that the weeks without returning to their pages turned with some sighed resignation to months. Any characteristic or tone given to each individual year is my responsibility; the overwraught giddyness all the more embarassing, given recent events. It was the death of my gran that closed the mind as well as the book; not that there can be any blame. Were I more determined in ways of expressing feelings the cupboard would be cleared of clutter and the diaries freed. Those four winds are cruel and determined.
So the worries, then? This is where my diaries would sigh, giggle, grow harder with the sensation of anticipation. Something suggestive of the word wet. I cannot cloathe with articulation the fullest worries, blazen or paranoid or unfair as they could be. Honesty has its modesty, just as the voices which are taught to pronounce honesty as you would over-emphasise particular sounds in French. My doubts are as likely to be minor unsettlings of the sanity as they would be genuine, based on evidence. But all doubts are secrets, and life has not faded the memories of many examples of my unlikliy role as keeper of the daily concerns.
My heart has its own beat, drifted over the bareness of beauty, detatched from the fierce ego of the fetishist.