When I was a child, I broke my mum’s flower pot. I was riding my bicycle merrily, without realising there was a pot in front of me and smashed right into it. That pot, unfortunately, was located right outside my mum’s room. Meaning if she were happened to look out of her windows at that moment, she’d have seen the whole ordeal. But LUCK was on my side because the sun was retreating and night had almost befallen. Frantically trying to avoid my mum’s temper, I asked for my siblings’ help. So the three of them tried to glue back the pot together while I just stood behind them, rushing them to be quick. Because of that, my siblings had missed their Power Rangers show. More importantly, I escaped with nothing but a secret. Until today, they never breathed a word to anyone. And neither had I, until this moment.
That was the secret I had had when I was a little girl. An innocent secret, a redundant secret. One that would only make my mum shakes her head if she knows about it now. One that my siblings still laughed at whenever they remember the incident. And of course, not forgetting the bit where they had missed their Power Rangers show.
Secrets. Be it a child’s fear of breaking her mum’s pot, or one’s sacrifices for those one cares for, we all have them. I certainly do. But the difference between my secrets now and those of 10 years ago is that they do more to people than arousing their tempers. They are able to put a smile on someone’s face or brighten someone’s day. Secrets that are able to make that smile freezes, and smashed one’s heart into smithereens. In a way, secrets held more power than spoken words. Because they’re unspoken. An inner side of someone, held deep within itself. And what’s unspoken is sometimes more important that what you can hear and listen.

I once wrote that I didn’t like writing about things I didn’t like, things I didn’t want to remember, things that made me felt sad. Those are my secrets. Something that I not only concealed from those around me, but from my blogs and my diary as well. They’re never written. Because I’m afraid of HURTING people. Sometimes, the more people reach out towards you, the more you pull yourself into the shadow, ignoring contact. Because you know they’re there to help and to offer comfort but you know they can’t. It’s not that they won’t understand your problems, or being unable to handle them. It’s because you’re unable to tell them what your problems are. You’re scared you’re going to hurt them instead. When I do know that hurting is even worse than being hurt. Or maybe, I’m just scared of hurting myself. It goes both ways.

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