(66) The abracadabrante story of Mooon Child

 

“My only memory is that I wanted to shut down the computer, but it refused to turn off, while on the screen all the files of every text I had written in my life were automatically opening in new windows, and the cursor was deleting them one by one, beginning from the end, making every sentence dis appeau; every word, every title.”

Makis Malafekas, Deepfake, translated from the Greek by Nicolas Pallier, Asphalte

— Should certain truths remain secret?
— It goes without saying that not all of them can be unveiled…

Notebook of the Moon Child

One willingly believes that revealing means liberating. Yet not every revelation is emancipatory. Certain truths, delivered too early, produce no clarity: they disorganize and, at times, open a void where there had previously been only a stable ignorance. Now, that ignorance is not always a defect; it may be a provisional form of equilibrium. To destroy that equilibrium without preparing what must replace it is to deliver the being over to a bottomless fall.

That is why there are truths that can appear only in the form of a detour. They do not give themselves frontally. They pass through images, through narratives, through figures that soften their violence. Myth, in this sense, is not a concealment of truth: it is its condition of possibility. It allows what cannot be directly endured to be approached and traversed without becoming immediately destructive.

Secrecy, then, is no longer what opposes truth; it becomes its mode of appearing. It is the form under which truth consents to let itself be approached without surrendering itself entirely. This is not a refusal, but a rhythm. Every truth has its own time — not an external, measurable time, but an inner time, the time of maturation.

Thus, what must remain secret is not what should never be spoken. It is what cannot be spoken unless the one who hears is ready to become other. For certain truths do not add themselves to what we know; they displace us outside ourselves. They are not contents; they are passages.

And perhaps therein lies their most radical demand: they ask not merely to be understood, but to be lived. They offer themselves only to the one who accepts losing the support he believed he possessed in the world. From then on, secrecy is no longer a boundary placed between human beings; it is a boundary within each person, a ridgeline where knowledge becomes experience, and where experience itself becomes transformation.

It is therefore not a matter of knowing whether one must reveal or remain silent. It is a matter of discerning what within us is capable of receiving. For truth is not merely what is spoken; it is what happens. And not everything that happens can be welcomed in full exposure. Certain truths require shadow, not in order to hide, but in order to be born.