You know, when I was seven, I loved secrets.  I wasn’t always great at keeping them (like, say, the time I got so excited about my Dad’s Christmas present from my Mom that I blurted, “Dad, Dad, aren’t you going to open your shirt now?!”), but man they were great.  They made you feel special…excited…important.  They were great weapons for, say, riling a sibling to inane jealousy (not that I ever did that to my sister, no way).  They were almost always innocent, fun, and boded well for the object–more like surprises than secrets.

I made it all the way to sixteen before I began to realize that secrets aren’t always nice.  Sometimes they are ugly, nasty, and soaked in deception.  They make you feel scared…tired…depressed.  They complicate and confuse black and white into an awful, heavy grey.

I’m twenty-four now, and I hate them.

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