I'm going tell you a secret

Or rather, I'm not. Or perhaps I just did.

If I have a secret, I should keep both the fact and the content to myself. That is to say, there is some violation, some breach of both security and etiquette, in telling you that I have one, even if (or exactly when) I don't tell you the piece of information that is secret. So, whether or not I actually have one is irrelevant. Of course it's not - but this is not a post about any specific secret, merely the idea of secrecy, and I wouldn't want to overstep that boundary by telling you I had one, if I did. Which I might. Or might not.

See? It's terrible isn't it? Now you no longer know whether I have a secret at all. We all have secrets, always. There are always things we don't tell each other, and some of those things constitute secrets. But then the-thing-we-don't-tell is not always a secret - a secret is a specific thing-which-shall-not-be-told, which is slightly different. Still, we all have secrets from each other at some point, and sometimes they are told eventually, when it matters less.

Plenty of what covers the walls of this hall is stuff which in another realm might be considered a secret. All my writings about IQ, for instance, come from a place which is very secret from her: the content and location of this blog are things she simply must not know. And yet I tell you all about my experiences in relation to that secret place; I share with you my deepest darkest feelings, which are secret from many.

I wonder if there is something in my life that is even more secret than the IQ Saga? Shining light in public on the darkest corners of my psyche, while keeping those corners hidden from the very person who makes me uncover them, is surely the biggest risk I could take. The consequences of IQ finding out are not something I wish to ponder, since I can only imagine it to be terrible. So is there anything worse I could share? Maybe, but I won't.