This morning I had a strange dream.
I was walking alone in the desert, thinking about my girlfriend, the problems we have and how to solve them.
Then this guy riding a bike came along. He stopped beside me and removed his helmet. I recognized him from a previous dream. His name was Harley Davidson. He smiled and said:
I know you like me
I know you do
That’s why whenever I come around
She’s all over you
I know you want me
It’s easy to see
And in the back of your mind
I know you should be on with me
Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me
Don’t you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me
Don’t you wish your girlfriend was raw like me
Don’t you wish your girlfriend was fun like me
Fight the feeling
Leave it alone
Because if it ain’t love
It just ain’t enough to leave a happy home
Let’s keep it friendly
You have to play fair
See I don’t care
But I know she ain’t one to share
I know she loves you
I’d probably be just as crazy about you
If you were my own man
Maybe next lifetime
Until then, old friend
Your secret is safe with me
– – – – – – – – – –
Lyrics by The Pussycat Dolls – Don’t Cha ft. Busta Rhymes
Picture from Shania Twain – That Don’t Impress Me Much
I intend to report you. Yes, this is what I’m going to do. Since this is the only freedom I have left, I am going to take advantage of it fully. Which reminds me, by the way, that you once said I was a reporter. So this is what reporters do. They report. Then here is my first report.
I’m not angry. Do I sound angry? Maybe I am a little. I don’t even know how I feel. I’m shaky, I know that. I feel like something is going to be released, finally. My insides are trembling. Nervous, that’s the word. I feel nervous and I don’t even know why.
There is so much I want to say, I don’t even know where to start and I don’t even know who to address. Who am I addressing? You, the one I intend to report or the reader? Both, because I’m making it public and I know you are reading it too. You read everything I write.
Two reasons to be anxious: you and the reader. But first you. The fact that you are letting me report you. How bizarre. Why does it feel so unsettling? Because I’ve never spoken of you so overtly before. You have been my secret for such a long time and I’ve only spoken of you enigmatically.
Now I’m about to speak of you very bluntly for the first time. No more mystery. No more poems. No more parables. Just the plain truth, as raw as it gets, even if I’m afraid of how it might come out. I want to do it.
I need to do this. The time has come. No matter how hard it is and how much I shake and fear. I’m tired of keeping it bottled up inside, it’s driving me insane. Although I know I’m going to sound crazy to some. I don’t care. I’m not doing it for anyone else. I’m doing it for my sake and probably yours too… beloved goddess.
I have a secret. I’m not going to tell you what it is because… it’s a secret. But if you have been reading my blog, you probably have figured it out already.
I’m in love. But I’m not going to tell you who the person is because… it’s a secret. But if you have been reading my blog, you probably know already.
I’m ashamed. But I’m not going to tell you why because… it’s a secret. But if you have been reading my blog, you probably have an idea.
I’m not suggesting that you should read my blog. I don’t want anyone to read my blog because… it’s private. But if you have been reading it, no damage was done.
No reader really knows who I am. I have not given anyone I know access to my blog. I could be your neighbor. I could be a family member. I could be your spouse.
I have a few secrets. This blog is one of them. It’s my private world, where I come to play with my thoughts, my emotions and my desires. I play with people and I play with gods. I play with mortals and I play with immortals. I play with you.
I’m in love. But I’m not going to tell you who he is because… you don’t know her. Unless you know yourself. Then you know already.
I’m ashamed, because of my… exposure.
I don’t know if I shall ever be willing to give up this fear within. This fear of what would happen if they’d ever find out my secret.
Are secrets meant to remain hidden? Apparently not. Is this fear a friend, or is it an enemy? Does fear come to haunt me or is it there to protect me? I can’t tell you because I don’t know.
Meanwhile I will probably keep on writing, to relieve myself of this burden I carry. A secret burden which is, paradoxically, light. A load that opens up freedom within me.
Writing the secret stuff.
I often wonder how to do it.
Especially what words to use.
One wrong word and you lose the reader.
I don’t want to lose the reader.
If I write it’s to be read.
To establish a connection.
A deep connection between two strangers.
I think the secret stuff is what unites us.
It’s what makes us one.
Nothing superficial really unites anyone.
Not in any permanent way anyway.