SITTING ON THE TRUTH
Secrets always leak out. It’s one of those undiscovered laws of soap operas and physics. Sit on the truth all you want, dig a hole, bury it in the backyard. Burn it, shove it in the trunk, push the car off one of those seaside cliffs, kill every person who could know and the thing will pop up tomorrow with the chutzpah of an old enemy, shouting in an Armageddon voice to come witness what you’ve done.
Perverse towards shutup is the stuff of secrets themselves. Sure, truth gets the awards and medals (usually posthumous), but secrets get the press. You can never buy up every single copy before the wrong eyes fall on words, you prayed, would never see print.
‘Don’t do it’ would seem the appropriate aphorism, but needs must, given the high ratings allure of the Class A secret. Cameras proliferate, guaranteeing the public leak.
Prior centuries with the most secrets seemed least likely to blab But always everywhere there was someone who knew and would sell you down the river for a song.