I just finished reading a book in which
there was a quote by John Dunne,
"Other men's crosses are not my crosses." And
this is true. But the thing is, other people's
secrets become our own. And maybe this
is why I write. As a way of
safely excising myself of the ominous
burden of secrets. Somehow, once memorized
in whispers and furtive glances they
are absorbed, never to be forgotten.
Perhaps some day they'll discover in the
body, somewhere between belly and ribcage
and organ, a small dark sac somewhat
firmer than the liver that holds secrets.
And when it starts to give or rip,
circulating repressed toxins back through the
mindstream, that's what causes sudden
madness. It could explain the bizarre
dementia sometimes seen in elders, the sac has
stretched and grown brittle, dripping half
remembered secrets back through the body.
Maybe someday they'll have a cure for
it, or downtown marches to fund vaccination
drives, school kids selling candy-bars door
to door for the cause.
