Two-Faced Mirage

I’ve spent years pulling the facades I wear to fishing lines sinking into the dark conscience of my being.  

The words I carry like a burden from childhood and the trauma the scars sewn shut, peeled my emotions like snakeskin from the color of my person. Auras the color of silk fluttering in the breeze to unravel and stick to passing by clouds. And I wonder if the little strips fashioned from my stray emotions, leftover to craft a mask for the performance, can ever be put together again. 

The years stretched like a tightrope that I blindly followed, afraid to fall to glittering crowds for amusement. Each performance was like water trapped in my throat, stripping and wearing me away. The mask and the costume are handpicked by passing sneers, molded by the shape of the imperialistic pen on paper.

And we, complex beings we are, harden to a shortlist but are like all the paint and cracks blanketing our souls. Criticism is wit and judgment is a greeting. All the sticky parts of words, swords to pierce ourselves in self-flagellation, 

I am too much a fragile being to not burn in the sun; I can not bend to the intricacies of the culture I am supposed to care about. My face cannot smile when I’m told. 

This fragility is like translucent glass where everyone can see through it but no one knows it’s there. No one can truly see me; I am the mind’s eye under the mask, the puppet to be packed away in the capillaries of memory. I am the ticket stub that fades to a smudge at the bottom of someone’s pocket. My performance is played over and over again in retrospect, through the lens of a grainy telescope trying to speculate on some faraway object until I am something else, someone else.

With every performance I forget who I am. I grip the tightrope to find the end, to lead me to ink-lined ocean bottoms. And I cast myself down to the great unknown to be engulfed by the starry pinpoint of the hazy moon and dull eyes blinded by all that illuminated by the sun.

I hope that by casting the lure it will catch on the fraying edges of my being to be dredged up and entertained before the mirage of myself.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: