a covering for all or part of the face, worn to conceal one's identity.
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To conceal. To hide. A superficial emotion to further push back what you wish to conceal. To hide. The funny people's mask is that of laughter and smiles, but have the emotions packed away into an imaginary chest; the lock keeping it shut may be steel, but the power of the human feelings can break anything. Recreating one's self into a new image may take a lot of paint. To rework yourself, to change; people are too lazy to change. We are scared of change. The mask has been made. We put it over the sacred flesh to keep us safe; a wall to keep all bad out. My mask, however, is a mask to keep the bad in. To keep the superfluous feelings of myself to myself and not leaking through the cracks of my pale skin. The sheltered thoughts of my only-human brain are sheltered for no reason but to explode upon someone with verbal diarrhea, waiting to apologize to them later for being absurd and ridiculous.
This mask has grown exponentially; things that have happened, events that have occurred... they're still masked by the artificial smile and the 'funny' person I claim to be. For I am a daisy; I am white on the outside: innocence is portrayed from every hole of my mask. But, the yellow is as bright as a summer's day sun; the corruption is soon to cause self-destruction. I will no longer be a daisy, but a sunflower. The yellow corruption will be the new color of my skin, and the brown-black guilt and death waiting to be called upon is now my new inside. The never-ending cycle of pity and guilt will get to my close friends and family, leaving me alone. The only guest I'll have at my funeral is the priest.
I don't want to die alone..
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"Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy."
~ Guillame Apollinaire.
