I like secrets and I’m good at keeping them. I don’t like lies, but then, I’m a terrible liar. I’m also none too adept at hiding my feelings, at least for very long.
But I do like holding things back, harmless things, just for myself. Perhaps it’s a habit leftover from a childhood of telling myself stories at night, or under (or in) a tree in the woods on one of my frequent quests for solitude, for hidden places. Maybe secrets just come with the territory of a personality that craves being alone–imaginary walls when no actual ones are at hand.
At any rate, there’s nothing wrong with a comforting insulation of information you keep to yourself, not unlike the small shoe box I still carry, rattling around with objects from my travels, collected over years.