Honesty. Honestly. Again.

It isn't easy.

I once told someone that I kept secrets from myself. They really didn't like this idea. They thought I was lying to myself. That the only issue was the decision as to whether or not keep secrets.

But the issue is a totally different one.

The issue is self-deception.

I don't understand myself. I seriously suspect there are things going on in my mind that I am most minimally in contact with.

I can feel the bubbling. The vague aching.

I know there are things hurting me, truths weighing on me, that I'm not yet able to face.

My consciousness, in many ways, is corrupt.

I am not artistic enough. I am not expressive enough.

I've got deep dark secrets of the most trivial nature.

I'm largely happy.

But I know I'm failing to be honest with myself.

Because the words won't come.

The words won't come.

I feel these insecurities, these pains, these deep dark feelings.

But they aren't words. They are feelings.

And as soon as I try to make them into words they hurt too much.

I keep secrets from myself because I'm not strong enough to tell myself certain things.