I once read a story about a little boy who knew a terrible secret about the king. The little boy couldn’t tell anyone the secret for fear that the king would trace it back to him, but he couldn’t hold it in either. So he dug a hole in the ground and told the secret to the earth. Then he buried it. In a few months’ time, a tree grew in that spot with leaves lush and green. And every time the wind blew, the secret was whispered by the rustling leaves.
“Tell your secret to the wind, but don’t blame it for telling the trees.”
–A Thousand Splendid Suns
I too, am carrying the burden of someone else’s secret. There’s no hole I can dig big enough to bury it and there are no whispers loud enough to spread it. The secret needs to be told to the people it’s hurting, but it’s not my secret to tell.
Word spread of the tree that whispered with the wind, and soon the entire kingdom learned of the king’s secret.
That’s the thing about secrets, they don’t stay buried forever. 纸包不住火.