talking2myself

Talking to Myself
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2005-02-05 12:51:03 (UTC)

Pretending....

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely Players;
They have their Exits and their Entrances,
And one man in his time playes many parts.
-- Shakespeare, As You Like It

It's hard enough to wake up every morning looking at myself
in the mirror fixing a smile on my lips eventhough I only
got tears in my eyes. No one notices them to be fake
anyways. People seem to be prettyy busy with a lot of things
in their own lives to notice others around them these days.
Before I go out the door of my house to go to work I inhale
a huge gulp of air trying to brace myself. Why? Because
again as I step out of that door I will be catapulted to the
stage once again. A stage where I perform each day. Where
everyone around me are my spectators. A stage where I begin
pretending. Pretending I am a lot of positive things when I
am actually not. A stage where I have to put up a brave
face...a facade of strength just so people would look at me
and think that I am this strong person who's so self-assured
and confident with herself. Not knowing that deep inside
there's this demon whispering doubts to me every minute and
every second of the day. That deep down inside I am this
weak human who's so unsure and confused about everything in
her life...in herself. If only they knew. If only they stop
for a second and look very deeply into me. If only someone
would stop for a bit and get to know me. The real me. I
wonder if they would find the real me revolting....or
perhaps they might like the darkness and would be able to
embrace it without any reservations....but I can not sure,
can I? Which is why I have to pretend. I have to be an
actress in this world which is but a stage to me. Finally
after my scene I would again retreat from that stage and go
back home. Where I would close the doors of my house and
hieve a sigh of relief. That is the time when I take down
all my masks and use my own face because it is finally safe
to do so. My energy drained from the acting and pretending
I've done the whole day I slump down my bed tiredly and
would start sobbing. At last the tears I could freely
release...all the hurt...all the pain...all the anger.
Everything that is ugly. Everything that is scary. This is
the reality. My reality. And tomorrow I will again wake up
and step upon that stage and....

Isn't it quite sad that I can only write well when I am
feeling so down and depressed?


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