The joy in keeping secrets.

I think we’ve ruined the mystery.

We’ve lost the joy in keeping secrets.

It’s so easy for us to tweet our every move, divulge every moment in a blog, spend too much time online and post every photo we take on Facebook.  But are we losing the significance of our days in doing so?  Is there any sanctity in sharing everything with everyone all of the time?

I am a firm supporter of the bravery it takes to share your story with others.  I know that the Internet has become a powerful way to connect with others.  I believe in having accountability with people we trust over the things we struggle with and celebrate most.  And I think the world is an immensely more beautiful place with art and reminders of history in it.

But when we keep nothing for ourselves, nothing special tucked away to preserve its meaning, we are giving away the childlike parts of us that thrive on mystery.

It’s like opening memory books and xeroxing every page.  Selling hope chests at yard sales.  Donating diaries to local libraries.  And the more we buy into it, the more we stifle our sense of importance.

Some feelings are meant to be held close, away from the rest of the world.  Some parts of you need to be revealed slowly, to keep the beauty in the mystery alive.  And some secrets are meant to be kept, not to weigh us down, but ultimately to set us free.