would you believe me if I told you everything I'd ever said was a lie?
Are we pretending?
The difference is lost on me; I know not the chasm between fact and fancy. They are one and the same, different views of the same thing, opposite angles.
I like pretending.
I live behind a false facade, breathe behind a mask made to mime and mimic the emotions I desire, crave, and pine to pursue. The mask will smile when I want it to, laugh when I give it permission. It is my slave, just as I am its slave.
My body is a puppet, my life a fabrication of fiction. I speak, spouting sweet words and lyrical lies. The two are twined, truth and lies woven in intricate patterns, a weave as complex as the persons that oversee it. Persons, and person.
One and the same, one and the same.
Grains of truth lie beneath lies, seeds sprouting trees of grandiose proportions. The trees are comforting, strong, and impressive. They never bend, never break, they are everything I want the world to see in me.
What I want me to see in me.
I have done a good job, I believe my own lies.
I don’t know how I’m meant to feel anymore.
The person on the outside doesn’t always match the one inside, though the names sometimes do. They are like two sides of a coin: different in their appearance, purpose, and outlook, but made from the same material, parts of the same whole. But unlike a coin they are aware of each other. They have met, conversed, and brought about changes in each other.
Has the Queen met the animals that lurk behind her?
So it is with me. The faces change depending on the situation, but what is inside always remains steadfast. Different masques hold different meanings; each fitted to its audience, each a representation of what lies beneath.
I lie beneath. And this is my story.