Leave Off The Mask, Love What's Beneath

They surround me. The flawless faces smiling easily, entirely aware of their own perfection, the hair that cascades smoothly over smooth, sloped shoulders, the slender, gazelle-like legs gliding around on towering heels without their owners breaking a sweat...they all reinforce one indesputable concept.



I won't ever be like them.



And I never will. I'm an ambitious girl, a vague creature who can handle a lot of pain without ever breaking down too badly, but there are some things I am aware I shouldn't attempt because trying at them will only bring inevitable, pointless failure. Yes, we must rise to challenges, but sometimes issues aren't simply trials. Sometimes they are experienced assassins, unbeatable mercenaries who will take us down at their discretion. We don't even have a chance.



I've tasted pure failure before, and, to say the least, it's a bitter drink. It stings your gut and trembles in your stomach; it induces waves of nausea that send you crashing to the dirt. And every time your face snaps against the ground, it's just another reminder that you're not adamantine. You will be broken. And after you get up this time, you will break again. Perhaps not immediately, but you can bet it will be back soon enough. It's the way of the world.



When you start toying with the sinews that you consist of, the invisible muscles your spirit is built around, you run into trouble. If you proceed past your breaking point, you'll snap yourself, like a brittle twig. Just because what you're toying with is part of your own body or mind doesn't mean that you know everything about it. Even the smallest parts of you possess secrets that are buried deep beneath the surface, in some dusty cavern long withheld from the sun. They wait there, brooding, dormant until the day of their release arrives. And when it does, they'll flutter up into the wind like scraps of paper, twisting and writhing away until they're out of sight. The only one who will remember they were ever there is you. They've taught you too much for you to forget them.



I'm a strange girl, overly-protective and occasionally harsh. I write obsessively, constantly scribbling down thoughts that my mind feverishly creates. If too many remain trapped inside for too long, my mind begins itching. I've actually found my hands moving independently, typing on a phantom keyboard, when I've been too long without writing. Sometimes, when I can't find paper or a laptop, I talk to myself, writing vocally until I can find a spiral notebook and pen. It's not uncommon for people to peer straight into my eyes, grin awkwardly, and tell me that I'm one of the weirdest people they've ever met.



I agree wholeheartedly with them, because I'm the strangest person I've ever met, too. It's been a fact to me for years, something that's simply been reinforced as time's went by. I see "normal" people and regard them with a mixture of envy and disregard, because I'm so unlike them.



Do they ever break? Have they ever felt the sting of hurt that runs so deep, it's ingrained in their blood? Have they ever cried until they've exhausted their tears, and understood that some emotions have far too much importance to be signified by drops of salty water? I don't believe most of them have. And if they have, they don much better masks then I've ever been able to create.



If I am one thing, I am alive. I do not dabble through my days, partaking of a few scraps of emotion now and then but preferring to stick to the trodden path. I dive into everything I do, acting first and thinking later. I only have one life, and I'm entirely aware of my own mortality. When my days are over, I might look back with a few regrets, but none of those regrets will involve being bland or lackadaisical. I love with every part of me, fear with every corner of my heart, and sing until my voice breaks.



I am not perfect, and I will never aspire to perfection. This strange kid I am, this girl who dances all alone in the spring rainshowers, this halfway-insane dreamer who's in love with the wind, has innumerable flaws. She will never be normal, but I've come to terms with that. There must be a place out there somewhere for someone like me, someone who will want a lunatic girl like me to stand at their side.



I will find that place, but until then, I'm here. I'll wear sneakers, my glasses will be slightly crooked, and my hair will spiral wierdly from my head like that of a stereotypical mad scientist. This girl is me, and I'm proud of her. This girl may be strange, but she is entirely alive, every part of her heart and her mind trembling with emotion. She will continue to laugh for no reason when she discovers something no one else finds funny but herself.



I will always be strange. I will never be normal. I do not regret this. If I pretended otherwise, I would be a skeleton wearing luxurious clothes, perhaps acceptable to the rest of the world but someone I would be ashamed of.



Because no matter how you wear a mask, it will still always be a mask.