All day long, you wear that mask and pretend you’re alright.
You smile, you say yes, you nod. You frown when it’s expected; you’re tired but you keep walking. It’s exhausting, but that’s all there is. Giving in and holding your tongue beats having to explain every single thing. Or fighting a losing battle.
And it gets bearable as time passes, knowing the day would come to a close and the thought of being on your own again, gets you going. Nothing like the comfort of your own bed, your own thoughts, and your own feelings — without anyone watching and making sure you act as expected.
But then, when it’s time to take off the mask, it’s when tears well up. Time to let loose what’s been bottled up inside. It comes in waves, and not the tiniest ones. But it’s the truest you become. Doesn’t matter as much that it’s only for the briefest time. The tears are a part of a cleansing ritual (or sort of). One you do when everyone is out of sight.
And then you sleep with traces of dried liquid on your cheeks. It’s okay though, it rinses easy as you wash your face in the morning.
And when you get up the next day, you look in the mirror, frown and feel sad with the reflection. But that voice shouts at you: “No time. A lot to do. More of the same BS to be repeated. Nothing ever gets done, or finished. You exit when you’re dead.”
And you shower, get dressed, put back the mask on your face. And you smile. It’s automatic.
It’s another day. Another chance to repeat the same sh*t.