Secrets

Egoism dictates human relations. A world where fashion overturns morality. Here success is written in blood-red colours designed by the thirst for control. Gather the faithless and propose a toast to the epoch of indifference. An all too ordinary story, with an aftertaste so bitter, morphed to the whims of a conforming world, because conformity is society. I'm losing myself, I'm sinking in deeper. I'm caught in the World Wound Web, a time represented by the black void - an excuse without content - stuck in the abyss of existence, with a content void of excuse. A coerced coexistence. An all too ordinary story; my story, with an aftertaste so bitter, I'm sinking deeper down - I'm caught, I'm caged, I'm gone.

Secrets are lies.

Beyond the inky calligraphy of trees, the city lies scribbled below. We are its people. Humanness is our escape from perfection. It's why we hide what we know; what we hide is a lie. If we don't know it, we won't hurt. If we don't hurt, we won't cry. If we don't cry, we don't live. Secrets are essential.

Their power lies in their being unknown. Like the bullets of a gun, they have that potential to destroy us. Secrets are lies. What do I lie about - my feelings or my life? Are they not the same thing? What if I lie so much that I start believing in them? The believing becomes remembering...

Why do we remember the things we remember?

It's the knowledge of knowing that holds my intrigue. There are no facts; only interpretations. Raw, unprecedented truth. In our ignorance, we confuse ourselves with the entity called power. There is an art to subconscious illusion. Humanness becomes us; we've become a palpable mass of want. Secrets are lies.

Why do we lie?

It's the baroque ecstasy, the grotesque compulsion of our conquests that are, frankly, disgusting. We have intentions behind our actions. Sometimes we do it to hide our fear, in order to protect others. He who does not understand your silence will probably not understand your words.

How dire the suffering?

The only paradise is the lost one. Lies transform us. Desire blooms into obsession, envy into malice, greed into rage. The only purpose lies truly serve is to crush us into an embarrassed nothingness. We secretly enjoy the picture of fallen splendour. There is a moment when all hope disappears, all pride is gone, all faith, all desire. We want to own that moment.

Lies, innocent lies. They are the honey of poisoned flowers. They do not accept criticism. Keeping secrets is like screaming for help that is impossible to give. We never let it out in error. We do everything for a reason. Secrets are lies.

Do not speak again.