Forests hide things. They have secrets. On the forest floor, and in the understory, the canopy, and the emergent layer, the secrets of the forest are whispered amongst its inhabitants.
Behind the ruins, beneath the rubble, there are secrets. You need not bloody your hands, wrack your mind, torment your heart, to reveal those secrets.
In definition and in identification, in concealment and in invention, secrets lose their significance, their power, their magic.
Secrets worth keeping are secrets worth telling, to the one or to the few who can bear their weight, their burden, when those secrets are added to his or her or their own secrets.
Interest, fascination, infatuation, obsession, all lie in mystery rather than identity. Within the realm of mystery, love, true love, exists at that moment, that place, where truth and magic collide, where fantasy, believed, is granted reality.