peeling back the layers

I want to be inside you.
Deep down in the darkness, where light doesn't penetrate and most people can only imagine what it's like.  In fact, only one person ever makes it there--you, because you're the only one that is allowed in.  Sure, sometimes you share, and bare your soul, to someone lucky enough. But it's not very often, and in all reality, that person isn't going to experience everything, because it's simply too deep.  There are still more corners, more shadows, and you truly don't let them in.
I have this theory that we're all the same.  The lives that we project on the outside truly aren't the lives we live on the inside.  Sure, we can share our thoughts, our dreams, and be honest with one another--usually our closest friends (like you, dear reader--I can trust you, right?).  However, it's not really every thought we have, every feeling we experience.
If  we shared that with each other, we'd discover we're actually psychotic.
(And we certainly can't be that, can we?)
(Of course not)
(Who are you talking to?)
(Get on with it, already).
We all have an inner monologue that goes on.  All the time.  (Even when we sleep, if you believe in dreams and their meaning, or clairvoyance, or sheer insanity).  We talk to ourselves . . . and sometimes the mental dialogue spills out of our mouth when people aren't around, "C'mon, step on the gas already!!"  "Seriously, you didn't just burn that, did you?" "Of course there's no toilet paper."   
As far as the toilet paper goes, the irritation could be self-directed, because you knew it needed to be replaced, and kept telling yourself you'd do it, but of course you didn't and now there isn't a square to spare.  Quite often the depths of our mental existence are rather shallow, although we refuse to admit that to ourselves.  We push things deeper, knowing the truth but failing to allow ourselves to acknowledge it.  For sure that (t)issue needs to be dealt with, asap, but not right away.  I'll get to it, really. That dentist appointment isn't going to make itself . . . but this month I'll get right on that.  And then when the next month rolls around, well, this time the appointment will be made--this time for real (unless it's the month after that). 
But we have thoughts about things and people every day, and no one will ever see them.  These aren't necessarily secrets--everyone has those, and that's a whole other deal. But our inner working mental life, that's a vast landscape of bizarre and magnificent thoughts. A vast chasm of anxiety and courage and daring and fear and loathing and elation.
A comedian has a bit about how, on an airplane, he has several ways to keep fellow passengers at arm's length, stating, "You know, I killed a bunch of people once."
In the movie Traffic, a character discusses how he is certain one of his friends masturbates to the thought of he and his girlfriend having sex, and the fact that it's okay.
Mel Gibson sounds off with an anti-Semitic rant at a traffic stop.
Some things aren't meant to make it out into the living, breathing world.  They are meant to be relegated to the dark, unspoken recesses of our anatomy; mere electric pulses that flit to and fro busily amongst each other. Real, imagined, or fabricated, nothing is sacred in the mind.  It's pure, unadulterated, unorganized thoughts.     
I want to know what's going on inside your head.