I have a secret. I like milkshakes made with sherbet. Don’t ask why I just do. The server at Ben and Jerry’s always asked if I did not want a sorbet splash instead. I would have to reassure him that no, I want a milk shake made with sherbet. But what makes this a secret. I will openly admit this gastronomic choice and clearly the server at Ben and Jerry’s knows about my habit. Maybe it is not really a secret. It is not like I have been to area 51 and seen the alien bodies; then again would I tell you if I had? This is so confusing what makes a secret a secret then. Dictionary.com has 14 different definitions for it. Is secret it self a secret. This circular logic is giving me a headache. Some how I think the question can be answered in a simple expression: Knowledge is power. Secrets are the way in which we try and keep the power to ourselves. But what ungodly power is hidden in the knowledge that I like milkshakes made with sherbet? Now that is a secret.
Or maybe this is all just a big mistake and that we should be living by another colloquialism: the truth will set you free. And we would be better off if just did not keep secrets. I remember an evening in which I was taking part in a “waiting for Godot” conversation, not a conversation about the play but those that seem to have come from the play, ones in which you talk about things that you were not part of even though they act as if you know. And during this conversation a girl was reminiscing about how she had had told guy that she like him, at which he responded, “It will be ok, you will get over it.” Seeing that they are still friends today I guess she did. The guy then remarked “that was a good day, I am glad you said that, people should be honest like that.” I should come clean myself and admit that I do not get milkshakes made solely with sherbet; I get a scoop of ice cream thrown in for good measure.
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