There is something fascinating with what people hide in their closets. I am in admiration for those who hide nothing, yet there is that mystery in discovering what precious sadnesses peoole stash away. I am talking metaphoric, spiritual, soulful closets. While ancient sheds are fun to poke around in, modern closets filled with sex objects, dirt and taboo secrets are scary.
The quiet person in the corner of a party, hiding from the glare of shining social butterflies, usually hold inner treasures I want to be a part of. Mind you, said butterflies also have their closets filled to the brim, and they can be interesting to look at, but I want to compare notes with the dark moth. I find things I am open about are the sorts of things butterflies quickly stuff into their closets. I get impatient with such folk. I also don’t want to be looked down upon for being open about what is shameful for them.
I guard my dark dungeon of a closet with an iron lock that would keep anyone away. Plus, I have a pet spider keeping watch. Anyone who can pat my spider calmly and fish for a master gets to look inside. Not that anyone has wanted to. I am not even keen to look into my own contents. One day I might be inclined to do so; with the same light hearted feel I get in the aforementioned ancient shed.
But other people hold items I seek to look upon and marvel at. Some write, some sing, some collect dead beetles, others have an ear wax sculpture and a few just stare at clouds. There are deeply sadistic, masochistic type contents too, but a bit of resassurance helps to have these things dusted off for view. In doing this, I learn that my closet isn’t so horrid or shame worthy after all. Probably more boring, I suppose.
Everyone has their public veneer. Only some are gaseous balls that shine with nuclear power. There is way too much fool’s gold shimmering with faux brassiness. The dimmed light bulb makes enough pretense to give some indication of their dark to light ratio. And subdued lighting suits me best.