Secrets

I really enjoyed my classes today. Even math. Which is weyurd. Though I wasn't in a very good head-place at the time for them. I've made a mess of my desk. But that's alright--pencil comes off that thing like nothing.

It is a secret because it cannot be said plainly; it sticks between my gums like sugar and seeds and resists. If I do say something plainly, it is not the same as the secret, as that-which-I-meant-to-say. A secret can be said. Said? Transferred; expressed. But it is such a careful business. Which isn't to say difficult--it is sometimes difficult, sometimes breathlessly easy. I am still trying to figure out why this disparity exists.

I will tell you a secret:

You remind me of Kevvos.

Why is this a secret? It is no terribly significant thing in itself. There are several unspoken things about it. Who am I speaking to? Who is Kevvos? I know who; I know who. What is it of you that reminds me of Kevvos? I know. What is the significance of your resemblance to Kevvos? That...that I'm not entirely sure of yet. But I know enough of it to know that it is significant, and in such a way that I should not say plainly who you are and who Kevvos is--what Kevvos is. I know this is a dangerous parallel to draw, and so I am careful about it. But I will, I must, and I do, because it is such a lovely one, too.


Now, that didn't get us very far. Let's try again with another secret:

I've begun closing my eyes in class.

Why is this a secret? I have left off a clause, or an entire sentence that, nonetheless, echoes after in my mind--the why. I know why. It is because-
But that is not something I can say. Why is that not something I can say? I know I want to say it, because that sentence has been trailing my thoughts every day. I think I even wrote it in my notebook. But at the same time, I am overprotective of them, of this secret--I want to keep it behind my teeth. I want to savor it. If I speak it, you will say something; you will taste it, judge it, and spit it into a bucket without swallowing, without taking it into you and getting a bit dizzy off it, as I do. It will not mean to you what it does to me; not when you ask so plainly as that. So I will preempt you, and tell you--but tell you on my own terms, as a secret. As a story. I will fuck with you, says the author, but only because I want you to see, as close as you can, how this fucks with me.

Why tell? Why retell? Because it is a means of reliving, to an extent. Of reminding. I am remembering through Kevvos, through closed eyes, and finally, through letting these small, concentrated sentences slip. And there is a way to get lost in remembering. But there is also a way to find one's way back through remembering--and by back, I mean anywhere. I mean movement. Moving. Too much, and you're spinning in your head, lost; but just enough, and the world is yours.



One more secret:

I am nervous.