Nakedness of the Ununique

The Nakedness of the Ununique
Being ourselves is mostly public and a little private,
    most is known;
Exposed to ourselves and others,
    little is hidden;
Sharing the same world,
    our limits are revealed;
Being entirely the past and a slice of the present,
    everything is recycled and our histories are unavoidably written;
Using eyes like billions of creatures,
    little goes unseen;
Sharing the fate of everyone,
    our deaths are public;
Our uniqueness is grounded in sameness,
    our genera are catalogued, our species specified;
Speaking and using the same languages,
    always out loud with others, impossible privately;
Surrounded by families and friends,
    seldom alone;
An open book,
    very few secrets itching to be told;
Coming out of the closet,
    just the naked flabby truth;
Hidden treasures unearthed, unboxed,
    opened in brightly lit museum walls.

Is there something
    I know
    that others don't or can't
    know, talk about, see, tell, or reveal?
If so, if so,
    it must be precious,
    hidden deep in the black hole of my soul
    dug up from the compost of my memories,
    something so special
    that even I am unsure if it is really real
    without showing or sharing with others. 
But, yes, yes, Multiplicity and Complexity and Variety
Open the door to privacy, exclusivity, aloneness, uniqueness. 
Trivial perceptions from my point of view,
     beyond the bother of naming. 
Private definitions of gnomes and gods,
     personal understandings filtered by my stupidities,
     wishful thinking, homespun illusions and delusions,
     innumerable bodily feelings even I have long forgotten,
     meaningless visions drowned in the sea of practical matters,
     hidden wishes squandered on realities. 

Open and closed, within and without, naked and clothed ...
Plenty of Both.  
 
-  Poetry by Michael P. Garofalo