The Mask

I put on my mask again. The mask of lies and smiles. It covers everything from my toes to my head, although it seems to miss my eyes. It must, I suppose, so that I can see.

It is a mask of white. Of purity and light. Of the way I used to be and how I used to think and speak. Of how I used to sing to the world as if every day was full of music and love. And how I used to dance and draw my way through every thought. Or how I used to think my way through the problems of each moment. It is a mask of me before I needed a mask.

I fear the mask is not thick enough. It is beginning to turn a little gray as the colours underneath become darker and darker. It seems it is breaking as well. The cracks are more visible to my eyes now than they have ever been. I fear they may soon be visible to others too.

Sometimes I don't need the mask. In fact, I am so bright that it frightens me. I become a colour that will end up blinding my eyes if it happens too much. The flash never happens for very long, however. It comes as if it was thrown at me, but doesn't stick because there is nothing holding it on. The contrast left over makes me seem twice as black as before. I am left with an instant of being without my mask and I again fear that others will notice what is underneath.

How I wish to rid myself of this fake white face I hold. It no longer even fits the real one underneath. It was made for the old me when an emergency caused the dark to appear. That old dark would soon fade and the mask was able to stay untarnished for later use. Today's black no longer fades. I wish I could make a mask that fits the me today. But seems the white material has run out, leaving with only the old mask to use.

And so I continue to wear it.