Secrets are not meant to be spoken out loud. We whisper them to ourselves, in that dreadful conspiratorial tone that reeks of self-sedition. Truth which breaks the constitution of our existence. Dark secrets. Those chapters half written, and given up, because they had too much of truth to stay in that diary of lies that makes up our lives. We keep those pages to ourselves 'cause only a few can even decipher the scraggy scrawny handwriting that came out in a few frenzied moments of furious clairvoyance.
I tried shouting my secrets out to the sky. The world didn't stop to listen. They were half-writing pages on their diaries while my pages, with all their scraggy words, fanned and fluttered in the wind and were shat and spat and scattered across random pavements across the globe. Footprints and dusty shoemarks over yellowed paper and curvy blue letters.
Only the clouds heard me. It rained. The blue letters melted away and trickled down the drains...
