I had a dream this morning. I was standing beside the river Styx in the pitch black of that underground place. In front of me was a low wall made entirely of stacked and lidded alabaster urns. A voice said to me, “These hold all the secrets of the dead who have crossed the river. You are charged with guarding them, but you must never, ever, look inside them.”
The dog woke me up before I could decide whether or not I was going to keep my post or tear into those babies.*
I've been thinking about those urns all day.
And I've been thinking about all the secrets that I do know about other people. About all the secrets that I keep for them and from them. All the secrets that they keep for me and from me. And all the secrets that I keep for and from myself.
And I wonder – do we take our secrets with us, or are we unburdened when we die? Is it as easy as opening a jar, whispering into it and then vanishing across a river? No longer burdened with our secrets, do we leave them for some else to guard? Or to find?
How many would leave their secrets and how many would carry them across?
Are there regrets either way once the river is crossed?
I think. A story. Somewhere.
*Frankly, I don't think they stood a chance. Hello...writer here.
Labels: Midas still has donkey ears