As I use my blogsite as a medium to share my philosophical musings about innumerable topics, on this occasion, I would like to share my thoughts about secrets and the need to treasure those. Secrets are untouched natural pearls inside oyster shells; the understory layer of an impenetrable rainforest with entwined vegetation; rare sea species in the deepest part of the oceans. No fortune teller warns the keepers of the concealed world about the consequences if they were to part with their secrets.
People discover or stumble upon secrets in interesting ways. The idea that a key would unravel many dark secrets, unknown to the world, has been exploited by creative minds from time immemorial. Friendship throws one into the elated position of a confidant allowing him or her to guard the mysteries of his or her friend. Death, the collector of souls, who exists her stopping place only after draping it in gloominess and emptiness and who leaves the bereaved in trauma, may unintentionally reveal secrets of a different nature. Secrets need to be treasured as the keepers are special to have access to those. Using the ideas of the death of a friend and a given key, I visualized myself as a protagonist in a scene pregnant with anticipation, anticipation of secrets yet to be discovered.
Coldness clutched at my chest, and wrenched my cherished memories off it, leaving me writhing in pain. An emotion indescribable despite the existence of words with similar connotations; albeit different meanings such as searing, excruciating, tormenting, gut-wrenching, a single word’s absence to delineate the ache that consumed my entire being rendered me powerless. I leaned forward to assuage the agony surging through me; an unconscious move which betrayed my emotional undercurrents.
A flutter of excitement and anticipation sped up my heartbeat. My laborious breath, while speeding up the staircase, matched the thud of my feet with the pounding of my heart. Reaching the head of the stairs, I slowed my pace to steady my erratic breathing. A few long strides brought me to my beloved friend’s room. I reached out for the heavy brass rings on the antique hand carved timber doors and gave it a gentle push. It opened inwards with a distinctive creak, a characteristic of massive ornate doors. As I stepped inside the room, a gust of wind, which gained simultaneous entry through the half opened French windows, assaulted my being, forcing me to acknowledge a spirit within the room.
With care, I unclasped the gold chain and slid the key off it. Holding my breath, I reached the antique cupboard, inserted the key into the slot and turned it twice. Creaking doors resting on old, rusty hinges broke the tense silence in the room. I had no difficulty in spotting my friend’s wooden chest with her initials carved on the lid. My joy knew no bounds when I flipped the chest open. Discoveries, though satisfying and strange, often hurled the individual into unpredictable and unknown terrains. I caressed the vintage typewriter as I visualized my friend’s fingers move across the keys of the magic machine that could transform clicks into words with deftness. Like a miracle. The paper-clipped manuscript placed next to the typewriter caught my attention. With a flirtatious smile on my lips, I retrieved the manuscript from the chest and perched on the bed, ready to delve into the secrets of the past.
If you there is complexity in my attempts to describe ‘secret’, then I am unsure of what you would think of Alan Watt’s explanation of the concept.
A Writer's Exposé 