Mask

It took me four minutes to peel my mask of. I examined the remains of glue hanging from my face as I recounted my performance in my mind. Timing? Perfect. Anxiety? Intense. Silence? Intimidating. Lighting? Daunting. This was followed by the fervid kudos. People inveigle me with their tautology applause. What they believe to be my heyday is in reality my rock bottom.

It surpasses my intellect. This emptiness, that is. I feel like a tree infested with fungi; so hollow and void of real thoughts. The irony of the situation is, however, that I put masks on to make a living. Each persona I wear should be beatitude that fills me up; something that erases nothing. But with each act, I lose myself. I believe I have started to live my performance. And every time I remove my makeup, I remove my own skin.

It’s easier that way, you know. Being someone else, criticizing someone else. That way, you know the ending to your story. It’s the uncertainty that I fear. What is to come? What will be? Oh how very terrifying it is. Why else is it that man fears death and darkness? Unknown is terrifying. Known bodes the mistakes of future. But mystery builds a new infrastructure and sometimes it can have dank foundation. Through my work, I neglect life. I truckle into my persona to avoid confrontation.

I miss people. I crave for friends who’re not two-faced sycophants. I yearn for company that would eliminate the fetid air of my house. I am tired of the prolix silence of my mind. Take this lagniappe away from me. I don’t want it. All these prototypes that I’m asked to follow are piling emptiness on me.

I look in the mirror and see a bête noire. As the crimson color from my eyeliner runs down my cheek, I begin to see myself. I am an incubus that wakes children up from the haven of their beliefs. I am the cold haunting merciless antagonist feeding on greed. I am the despairing forlorn lost beggar pleading for penitence. I see tears in my eyes. I am crying. But over what? For what? Maybe at myself, for becoming what I am today. Or perhaps at what I see from where I stand.

They say self-apathy is the worst. That the one who suffers gargantuan amounts of mental torture finds physical torture mundane. I can vouch for that. All these years. All those ecumenical performances. I was trying to build a life for myself when all I created was a lie.