People are fools. They keep the world compressed in their pockets. Eyes, ears and hands all kept hidden in bags and purses and closets.
These people: us, them, they, he, she- we hide things. We hide our shoes in our ears and we keep our breath from revealing too much about ourselves. We hide everything.
Turn a person’s underwear inside out and you will learn much about them. Search under pillows, laundry baskets, car seats and backpacks and you will learn the world about a person.
People hide between the lines. They think they remain hidden by clothes but really they are hidden by everything in their lives.
People are secrets. Secrets with shoes on. They are illusive vapors walking through a world. Never appearing as you see them. There are too many things crammed away in pockets and under kitchen sinks. You will need a ladder to get to the top of their stacked secrets.
I am cautious of people. Even my own wife is apprehensive to me. I am skeptical of herself that she presents to me. There is always a shoe or a spatula or even a larger blanket between my heart and her heart. I must do this to survive. Sometimes I can see her hoarded secrets causing her closet doors and bags to dilate.
Given the choice, I stay home. I prefer my solitude filled with music, drawings and words. Fictional words. Words and music artfully executed. I prefer the silence to the human voice whose words are filled with mold and rust. You see, in my solitude of artfully executed words and sounds, there is nothing hiding. Everything is as it is and the complexities are endless tunnels for my brain to wander around in.
There are no complexities in secrets. Secrets are as banal as a laundry room. Those who keep secrets are as artless as a bathroom towel. They are still afraid.
Given the choice, I will excuse myself from their company. I need brave art instead.