I’ve never been big on knowing people’s secrets. I remember the first time I was told a secret that I had to keep – I was about 5 years old (I’m one of those weird people who remembers huge details of their childhood) and I was given the secret to keep of a surprise party. Even then I understood that it would be rotten to tell the person whose party it was – because it would ruin it for them.
With secrets comes responsibility.
I’m not one who needs to know everything. I don’t gossip; I get no pleasure out of learning other people’s misfortunes, nor to I wish to add to them by telling others who have no business knowing about them. Why do we keep secrets? Many if not most of the time it’s because we’re ashamed.
With secrets comes grief.
And then there are the secrets we keep tucked away because they are special to us. Happy, intimate moments we share with loved ones that would lose the element of preciousness were we to tell even one other person.
With secrets comes contentment. I’d never want to ruin that for someone else.
So to be a fly on the wall would be a horrid experience for me. And knowing my luck, I’d meet my end on the back of a fly swatter anyway.