The Search for Meaning in what We are Afraid to Know

There's a difference between those things that i am afraid to know and things i am afraid to admit. I can't help but know. It's ingrained, and inevitable. Though, to admit it to oneself, there is where the search becomes muddled by two thick hands cupped together as if to protect a worm or a butterfly. This affliction encroaches upon all the leaking facets of my substance. Yesterday, my secret online journal was found by a friend. My extremely private, clandestine collection of salacious stories and wanton fantasies. I was less embarrassed and more disappointed. My favorite thing about secrecy is that it is all mine. Occasionally, i share it with those that i love and trust, but ultimately that is the one thing that belongs to me, and is mine to control. Except when it is stolen, or rather accidently misplaced.
Again, my first reaction was disappointment. How sad, my secret, no more. Next, shame. She knows how i fantasize, and of who i do, and why. And that's the worst one of them all. The why. Too personal, too revealing. If someone manipulatively intelligent knew too many whys about you, you're theirs for the keeping, hurting and eventual killing. Third in the line of emotions, fear. Deep, penetrating, unadulterated fear. You know the kind, the ones that run along those old, broken down synapsis underneath all the time of adolescence and young adulthood that whittled you into the half, white-faced ghost of everything you never really were or could be. Or do you know? I'm not sure if those things exist in trueness, and by that I mean atoms, molecules, that type of trueness in substance. Do you know? Does it exist? At least for you, my reader? Anyhow, fear of knowing.
After playing it off, and her departure, I could not walk into the room where my computer resides. I feared to hear it's soft, one directional breath. I trembled in thought of re-reading the last month of filth i had written. I could not even bear to navigate the mouse's pointer toward the right corner X in a temporary fashion of making it all go away. At least for now. All these feelings made me think about my half assed search for meaning in what i am afraid to know. I wondered what meanings each of you seek and what things you must tiptoe around in what you are afraid to know. I pondered whether we share any of the same.
Eventually, i made my way back. After thinking, and thinking, showering, then thinking more, I decided that there is no point in succumbing to the fear. Fear of what, losing? People, self-respect, face, self, memory? Those things can be stripped from you despite what you do to protect them. You can, at any time, lose everything without the slightest clue to its eventual arrival. You can at any time, be absolutely, and utterly alone. Because you are right now? Right? Why am i afraid to be known as a hater, yearner, pretender, dreamer, fucker, down right dirty mothafucka? I don't want to be afraid to know myself. If i depend on a meaning not of my own creation, how can i trust it? How can i trust my own? I don't even know what a meaning looks like, or sounds like. I'm the only one around to tell me that i may be right or i may be wrong. I'm just traveling over the same words that someone must have said before because i feel so bored with it, so absolutely sick with it!