Secrets make and break you. Secrets bring you joy and sorrow. They bring you closer to people and push people away. A secret is a sacred, dangerous thing. Complex in their existence, simple in their purpose. Intended as a pact between two beings, or a group, or as a private thing to hide a part of yourself away just for you. Secrets can corrupt pure things, or lead to a purification of oneself if meditated upon. Life is full of them, and people often dislike them.
Personally, I love their power, their clandestine nature. I have many secrets, I hold them close to me, deep within myself. Secrets from others, about others, secrets from me and about me. I rarely let people into my library of personal information. I keep them out of the hidden data I have been entrusted to keep by others.
I enjoy the trust, and I enjoy the effort to contain them. I enjoy secret information.
Yet, I despise them, having to keep them, to remember them, to secure the files within my vault. It pains me to keep some of them, it pains me to have knowledge I cannot act upon.
It is a perpetual conundrum of rising and falling joy and despair. Its a complex maze of intellectual property, the power to destroy, or to keep safe with a simple recollection of a fact.
Sharing my own scares me, and I rarely do so willingly. My secrets make me vulnerable when shown, yet I desire to share my own secrets with select people who may understand. That level of trust from me is insane, and difficult. It makes me irrational, paranoia courses through me fearing betrayal.
I love to be that intimate, yet fear it. To truly trust someone to keep my full library with me is a dream I fear is totally outlandish, but would be glad to have.