My secrets are a set of Russian Dolls that i closely guard; the biggest of the dolls, the exterior one, is a secret in name only. She is a secret i willingly share. If you were to lift her away there is a slightly more secret doll underneath that less people have seen, and she is a more decorated secret that is only smaller through having been kept enclosed for so long; she has shrunk down onto herself, almost distilled down. Lifting her away reveals yet another treasured secret, and so on and so forth. Some of those larger dolls are ones that i just idly pass by to get to the smaller ones, and no one has ever learned to recognize them along the way. Some of the smaller ones i don’t even know the look of anymore — just where they fit into the puzzle. And then, somewhere in the middle of the entire mess, there is one secret so distilled unto itself that it is like a single drop of the purest alcohol in the world: enough to knock me off of my feet.
I let Lindsay have one of those inbetween Dolls last night… one that wasn’t so small but that i had totally forgotten the look of. She smiled a tiny smile as i handed it to her, and spread her fingers over the polished secret surface while i sang the song i had written for it, and when i was done she handed it back to me and asked why i kept such a pretty one hidden away, and i think i said that “i don’t even remember what it feels like anymore; i like that i’ve forgotten. i couldn’t feel this every time i play that song… it’s not the most hidden away, but i usually just skip past it and head towards the smaller ones.”
It is put away now, but i remember it’s shiny features and its beaded eyes and the ribbons in its hair… all things i had forgotten. And it’s song is still ringing in my ears, but i’m afraid if i play it again i might shatter everything entirely.