Questioning, I am always questioning.
The mask I wear is so familiar, sometimes I think that my skin has grafted to the smooth wood and that it is my face now. Sometimes when I am with my mother or father or brother I look through it and they see my real eyes; muddy with green and hazel--ugly yet honest. But with others I am just a life-like mask with blank eyes that I say are green. No one even suspects it. Yet.
How do you know what is the real you? Is it when you succumb to all your desires, embrace everything bad and good about yourself and love it; or deny everything about yourself and live an unmarked, prescribed life? I'd rather believe the answer is neither--it is somewhere in-between. But how to know what to accept and what to throw away.
That is why I'd rather just raise my mask and shield myself from the strange gazes that could glimpse the storms that cross my face. That cloudy murkiness with wetness and electricity that is both beautiful and frightening. It is the fear and excitement you feel when you go outside in tornado weather and stare up at the stained yellow sky and open your arms wide and don't care a damn about the raindrops in your eyes.
...
I don't swear.
I don't even know myself anymore. My heart and head are estranged from who I was. What kind of sad person am I turning out to be?
The mask I wear is so familiar, sometimes I think that my skin has grafted to the smooth wood and that it is my face now. Sometimes when I am with my mother or father or brother I look through it and they see my real eyes; muddy with green and hazel--ugly yet honest. But with others I am just a life-like mask with blank eyes that I say are green. No one even suspects it. Yet.
How do you know what is the real you? Is it when you succumb to all your desires, embrace everything bad and good about yourself and love it; or deny everything about yourself and live an unmarked, prescribed life? I'd rather believe the answer is neither--it is somewhere in-between. But how to know what to accept and what to throw away.
That is why I'd rather just raise my mask and shield myself from the strange gazes that could glimpse the storms that cross my face. That cloudy murkiness with wetness and electricity that is both beautiful and frightening. It is the fear and excitement you feel when you go outside in tornado weather and stare up at the stained yellow sky and open your arms wide and don't care a damn about the raindrops in your eyes.
...
I don't swear.
I don't even know myself anymore. My heart and head are estranged from who I was. What kind of sad person am I turning out to be?
