Who we are
Summary: On appearances...


They tell me I am stupid.

They call me an idiot.

They say it's because I'm masochistic.

Suicidal.

I can hear their judgmental thoughts, I breathe in their disapproving words everyday. I could take it, at first. Because the wounds were new –and even though the pain was fresh and deep—I was determined to take it on with my full strength. Now, now that the slashes have formed pink scars that hurt no less than if they weren't there, they've taken my resilience along with, and left me with no blood, no oxygen, no will to fight off this exhaustion.

I could take it all before. But I just can not right now.

So, I don't even bother hiding it. Which is slightly funny, and somewhat ironic, because….wasn't that what it was actually all about? Appearances and allthatshit? Letting selfhatred consume you so much that you can't even look at yourself into the mirror. That you can't even begin to form where one scar begins and where the other one ends, even though they're all sef-inflicted….several burns of several candles that you yourself held upto your skin because you were stupid, maybe? Or because you just wanted to be somewhat stupid, having had enough of the charade of being wise.

Because that was what life was. A charade. A marching band. A carousal. A pointless little joyride for a few minutes of amusement for the spectators to see. But, really, appearances. Because what the actual thing to see is the countless hours of bloodshed practice and complete and utter shit that it takes for each member of the band to walk the way they walk, for each player to tune themselves in harmony, for the entire band to synchronize and not form jangling threads of mismatched voices. But that doesn't matter. And, oh, why would it? It's not pleasing to the eye. What is pleasing, is a few minutes of amusement. A small display of magnanimous splendor. A few extra encores even, if the band marched well to their expectations.

Because life demands appearances. And expectations to fulfill those damn appearances. And half a lifetime to fulfill those expectations. And half a lifetime to keep up with those appearances. And in the end, they still win. Because heaven knows you can only lie to the world for so long.

And the spades start falling and the aces start flying because they weren't glued to the table and the wind was too strong. And, one by one, the marching bands splits; people fall over because they're too exhausted to keep walking. And people stop playing because they were actually too drowsy from the nights' practice to keep their eyes open.

And the spectators stand up, bored, unentertained, and indifferent, leave the benches and walk away.

It's funny how complete the delusion that beauty is perfection really is. I have the perfectly shaped, perfectly thin, perfectly sized body; so does it really matter that I let go of the basic human needs to actually have it? I have got the most plump, richest lips; so does it matter that all that keeps spewing out of them is a plethora of lies? That these used-to-be-thick and beautiful brown terraces of mine have been wilting like a shady plant left in the desert?

So long as I look pretty, picture-perfect, so long as I act all elegant and graceful and fine, does it really matter that I had to place one wretched, bloody, perfectly shaped –fake fake fake–brick over another, and stack them all together to build a wall that hides from the world who I really am, and shows them beauty and perfection?

Like an athlete over a stretched wire, I danced over it while the world watched. Expecting elegance. And beauty. And grace. And perfection. Duly delivered. So did it matter that my weight was always dangling too much on one side? That I didn't know for how long was it that I had to keep struggling to keep still? That I was always on the edge, waiting, just waiting, for my burden to be too heavy enough to carry? Waiting and waiting, for a wind strong enough to come by and push me down.

They say it's because I'm crazy.

They call it masochism.

Suicide.

I say it's human.

That I dolled myself up. And weighed myself down. So, the world gets what it expects. So, I wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of not being able to live it up.

That, I hid—and still hide—like a snail in a shell. Recoiling. Afraid. Nervous. Uncertain. Depositing another sheath of goo, over the already-hard luggage. Carrying the weight of the world on its tiny shoulders.

I hid everything I owned because I didn't think the world would be able to stand what that slimy snail really looks like if that shell were to be taken away. And now, I stand naked to the world, much-too revealed and walk much-too alone. With the wind that once pushed me, chilling me. With the eyes that once sought amusement, staring in the other direction.

The walls break. My shell wilts. The spades fall. The aces flow.

The joyride ends.

And this is who I really am.

This is all that we really are.