A Note on Being Fake

I pity within my heart those who are weighed by this burden. Those who carry with them such a tiresome task...and to never stop working for that which does not exist. I look upon them in wonder and awe at how the holding of their masks can be exasperating, not to their limbs, but to suffer the self-inflicted wounds of their integrity. I shall pity them for this. I will pity them for the naive children that they are, to have yet to realize the danger of their masks, and how so easily they can be broken off. I pity them for the day they realize the beauty of the clean shaven, open skin, and the freedom and releif of their now revealed soul. They will weep over the wasted days, the acting years, their wounded self. I will do nothing to console them, but merely salt their wounds- to make a mockery of their naked beings, and make their past mistakes burn like the fire in my heart. For, their heart is but a mere wasteland of ash and coal, and after years of watering their hearts, like so it will take years to rekindle even the smallest of flames; but, there are some for whom I carry no pity within my heart. For those who are born with a raging fire within their soul, one that burns stronger than my present, and when they are exposed they pour on endless waterfall upon their heart, and for those who not only put out their fire, but sweep the ashes of it's remains, removing evidence and hope of at least a memory from this burning rage, and for those who lock their ashes in a box, and send them down the river that this waterfall has created to never be seen again. And to destroy all hope of re-appreciation. For them I can carry no pity at all.