clandestine. Sometimes when I’m in a public area with strangers, I start to think too hard. Often, I tell myself to think of something crazy, something obscene. I begin to think of that thing over and over, watching the people around me to see if they react. It’s crazy, right? I’m literally setting a trap for a telepath. A fictional thing, sure.I know telepaths don’t exist. But it’s something I do every day, multiple times a day. How do your secrets make you unique? How do these things hold you together? How do they tear you apart? I think of my head as an attic floor. Geographically it’s at the top of the body (or theoretically should be, no hate to otherwise built aliens or intergalactic specimens). And when I dare venture into the bowels of this attic, (sidenote: was that a good enough reason to use the word bowels, even?) I find myself sitting down, on the dust and cobwebs looking at the boxes. Stuff is marked with bold colored Sharpies: “April ‘01” “Hurrican Katrina” “Wagga Wagga Wollongong” and “Singapore”. Among others. I know what’s in these boxes. Okay wait, do I? Am I completely sure that Hurrican Katrina contains memories of roving sirens, wading through chest deep water, malnutrition, and the like? I.m not. I’m not sure. I forget what it’s like to be trapped in a windowless, air conditionless hotel room in August, hoping and praying that I will be able to leave or at least find some clean drinking water to sip on. My cracked dry lips felt dirty, like I’d been in a desert sandstorm or swum in the ocean. No, that’s Wagga Wagga Wollongong now. I’ve switched boxes, accidentally. I close my eyes, clutching for the lost memories that have spilled. I can’t feel anything, so I open my eyes again to look at the boxes… And I haven’t even opened them. I’m still sitting in front of them, hugging my legs, crossed under me as tight as I can. What do those boxes hold? Secrets? Mysteries. Stories. The real truth. The real me. Someone once told me: ‘I want to see all the parts of you, even the ones you’re ashamed of.’ But no, I only showed him polished and glossy. Embellished, scented with ambrosia and nectar. Rhinestoned, expertly lit, stunning in it’s symmetry. I grab a roll of tape, coating the unopened boxes in layer after layer of it. I pushed them back, past where the light from the 40 watt bulb reached. Into the cobwebs, into the dark. I pulled the chain on the light, unscrewing the bulb, hiding it above the door in a place between the bricks and the door frame. I locked the door, dead bolted the door, and padlocked the door. I walked away.
Posted on: Wed, 21 Aug 2013 19:59:44 +0000
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