Precious secrets

He's got secrets too. He's also part of several more secrets. Some of them are mine, some are his, and some connect us in a highly unlikely manner. He has given me a very precious child. I may pay the favour back, or at least, let him know about it one day. Or I may just decide to keep it mum. ;)

I have many secrets. They get more with the passing of time. I wish they also got a lot more interesting.

For example, this entire blog is a secret as I have not included it in my CV. I don't want the wrong person reading my musings, especially if that person is the key holder to a possible job. Then there are other secrets, which I don't write about even in this blog; only in my diary. And there are those secrets no-one knows about, and I will never write down.

Most of the time even those people who read my musings and have a relative background have no idea what I am talking about. I choose to write in a way that it is open to interpretation, in order to say what I want and avoid detection. I am pretty sure that the reason this blog exists is to read it and feel comforted by my own words and my own point of view. From this aspect, all humans are the same. We love that which is familiar.

Okay, let's share some of these secrets. See if I can shock some of my readers into stop reading me, thinking I have finally lost it.

My favourite author who also happens to belong to the First Ten (or maybe Eight or Twelve) is married to a woman who despises him, and she is a siren. Not metaphorically speaking. Literally siren, which means, winged woman who eats people kind of creature. Every time she smiles, she looks like she is about to bite a chunk of flesh off someone. Of course, he has no clue, and when she is around he smiles, a man in love. She always grimaces as if he disgusts her. Then again, she always grimaces as if she is either disgusted by the entirety of existence or she's about to lunge at some poor human and eat their face.

Another author I love has a son who aspires to be as successful an author as his father. The son hates his father and is very jealous of him, because deep down he knows he's not as good as his dad. The son has gone and made a deal with an entity for fame, and his books leave an aftertaste like licking the floors of a slaughterhouse. I am serious. It's an essence of rotting blood, fluids from entrails and shit combined. Of course, no-one seems to know it. Instead they pile awards on him, making me wonder about their taste and doubt my own sanity.

A few weeks ago my house was under magickal/ demonic attack. In the course of just few days, I had two dead cats, one possessed cat and a very sick dog. I had to actually exorcise the cat.

The crazy lady next door was under possession of a thought-form or entity. I could see that being looking at me from within her eyes. A similar entity resided inside my father before he died. I can tell apart those possessed by thought-forms or entities. They all have the same glassy, unfocused eyes. I wonder why other people don't see it when it's so clear and unsettling. Then once more I wonder if I am crazy.

Two of the people I hold closest to my heart see visions and spirits and other such. I sometimes wish those visions came with names of people, phone numbers and dates.

I have written a thank you speech in case I ever receive any kind of literary award. I even checked how long it is by keeping time. I hope I'll get to use it one day.

Now guess which one of these is a lie. Then guess again, because maybe I am pulling your leg, and they're all true, or all lies, or what I perceive to be real. And that is obviously debatable.

I am off to finish a book no-one knows about under a pseudonym no-one suspects. Ha ha.