As a child, when I occasionally wrote down stories or poems, it was on scraps of paper and stored away in a flat Vochelle tin under my bed. I wonder why I left it there, considering that it wasn't the best of hiding places. Or maybe it wasn't meant to be hidden. It was left there to be discovered by anyone who really wanted to see what was in that tin.
Similarly, the many serialized stories that I wrote were stored away in a folder with my name on it. It wasn’t really secret but more in a not-in-your-face sense. It was never password protected. (More so, because I guess because I didn’t know how to.)
Few months ago I found myself writing down my thoughts in a folder, which I labeled hidden. Yeah right…hidden in such a way that anyone who scanned my documents could find it.
Who was I trying to delude but myself? Everything that I wrote was a personal note, personal to the extent that I didn’t want to publish or publicize it but public to the extent that it was left available to anybody who wanted to see it or appreciate it. Privately public in one sense, but publicly private in another. Still doesn’t make complete sense to me. After all, where does the private end and the public begin? Any thoughts?