Let’s face it. We all have skeletons in the closet. And we guard these with our lives. But often times, maybe to ease any associated guilt, or simply to blow off steam, we confide in somebody, carefully chosen for being, among other qualities, trustworthy and the most important of all, able to keep secrets.
Unfortunately, sooner or later, this trust becomes breached: the tongue slips and, unable to recover and make up a lame explanation, instead admits the whole thing. There goes your secret. And along with it what remains of your tattered dignity.
Rapping you out and short of declaring to all and sundry, “the jig is up, I know a deep and dark secret he harbors” only means the other person deserves to be buried, alive! But there’s just no point in digging a hole in the ground meant for squealers, for crying out loud because you’ll only end up crawling into it, for refuge. There’s no use lacing sandwiches with cyanide, God forbid! It’s not the end of the world.
A secret is bound to be found, after all. And keeping it as long as you can is the biggest challenge. Unless of course it is written somewhere that breaching your trust and confidence might throw this rat’s ass in jail. Which I don’t have, of course.
And you make plans for damage control, like what the Vatican is doing to assuage offended Muslims over the Pope’s comments about Islam.
But the equation has totally changed. You see, the variables have shifted, and the figures on the right side of the equal sign now paint a totally different picture. *sigh*
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