Imagination.

Imagination is a powerful thing. Children create imaginary friends with them, artists create masterpieces and some people even use them as professions. They are called “Imagineers”. But I digress. My imagination is not used to create friends or paint or create theme parks. I mostly use it to confess, and sometimes even create my own reality, when things go sour.

I have an overly active imagination. Often I find myself drifting off into a deep state of mind where I submerge myself into whatever artificial reality I made up. But recently, I noticed a pattern in these deep thoughts of mine.

These thoughts usually occur when I am doing something that requires little brain power. Like driving. I imagine things when going down the road at 100 kilometers per hour, only to realise that, that might not be in the best interest of me trying to stay alive.

I imagine my mother’s funeral. I imagine confessing to everyone that I truly loved her, and how her life was unfair and how she was treated like a cancer tumor by her own children and everyone around her. I confess to everyone there and show them their mistakes and make them feel the pain, but also make them feel my love for my departed mother. I imagine sitting down on a stage, next to a blown-up picture of her smiling and in her youth, and I imagine playing an instrument and singing her a song, as a way of saying good bye.

But not all my thoughts are made of shadows and sin. I often imagine confessing to a person that I love her. Standing close to her, looking into her eyes, stroking her face, her hair and showing her all the love I can possibly give. I tell her things, like how strongly I feel about her. How her smile makes me feel alive. How her laughter makes my face light up. How I wish her hands would touch my skin. How I wish to embrace her and protect her from all harm. How I wish to see her beautiful face every day for the rest of my given life. And how all I want to do is to be her best friend and make her happy.

When people go insane, they create their own reality that is in their favour. Maybe I’m going insane. Or maybe I am just preparing myself for the big, life changing events that are inevitably going to happen. Either way, I think my mind is working against me.

Facade.

In college, I am a joker, a retard, a smiler, a laugher, given that I am surrounded by the people I enjoy.  At home, I am a musician, a poet, a writer, given that I am alone.

You see, I have masks. Several of them. I can put one and act the part perfectly and make my audience believe that I am who the mask appears to be. Sometimes, it is a lie. Not most of the time. It is easy to make them believe I am happy.

These masks allow me to hide my true face. Because underneath lies what nobody really wants to see. Or even bothers to see. And I’m not even sure how to describe what lies underneath. But oh God, how I just wish to show this eclipse-like face of mine that so very little beautiful souls have seen. And that face will say things that will truly mean something. It will tell stories of childhood, love and pain. And when it smiles, it will show a genuine smile. And if it cries, although it rarely every does, it will shed genuine tears.

“Why do you wear these masks”, you may ask. Well, its simple. To hide, to deceive and to avoid. It has occurred to me at a young age that people only see want they want to see. For example, why do people call someone “emo”, just because he/she is sitting alone? Because they disapprove of that. They’d rather see someone who walks around, socialise and throw a joke or two.

So, to avoid the judgemental eyes of the public, I put on these mask to hide and merge with the crowd. So I won’t have to deal with the drama of being left out or worrying about acceptance. It is much easier than trying to make a close-minded person understand that not all of us are born with a happy family that cares and loves us with vast savings of money in the bank that assures us financial security or a bright future. And it is much easier than trying to explain to them that not every child was kept safe from physical and emotional pain. And not all of us grew up to be perfect, socially and physically accepted people. And that some of us are just irreversibly and absolutely broken inside.

So, you see, sometimes pretending is easier. Especially around people who you are not entirely sure would understand who you are.

But I have to say, I do not disguise myself to everyone. Sometimes I come across beautiful souls who are as broken as me. Or who are curious enough to want to know what being broken is because they never experienced it themselves. And when I meet those people, I take off my masks. I show them who I am. And from then on, any kind of relationship that may blossom between the two of us will entirely depend on how that person reacts to the mask-less monster that I am sure I am.

Anger.

Nobody sees it, maybe, but I do. I’ve seen this act a thousand times before because I was one of the main characters.

She likes to be in control. She likes it when guys follow her around wherever she goes. Eyeing at her body, listening to every word she has to say. She likes the attention. Oh dear god, how she likes it. But she makes it seem like she doesn’t, so she can fool herself into thinking that she is a nice person, a humble person, a normal person. You are not normal. You put on a mask to fool yourself while the rest of us try to fool others. What is it that you are trying to achieve?

I see you walk away suddenly because I know you want everyone else to chase you. You don’t wait because you do not want to follow the group. You want the group to follow you. You want to be independent, yet you have no idea what being by yourself truly means. You do not know the true extent of loneliness, nor solitude. You depend on others to depend on you. But that is only socially. Because in truth, you are more alone than you realise. All those friends of yours. Can you even call them that? Do you know what true friendship is?

These friends. They like having you around because of their ulterior motives. They want your body, and not your heart. Can you call them your friends? These are just people whose main goal is to take away your innocence. It is a tragedy to see that you do not have the ability to tell which people are your true friends, and which are just parasites with increased libido and no knowledge of how to use protection, nor how to perform sexual acts or pulling out. Something I’m sure they have daydreamed a thousand times with you.

They want it, and you are teasing them. You are gambling with your life. I worry for you, even when you act as if I am one of them. I am not. I do not fall for your spell because I am not a horny idiot. You are young, and what you are doing now will shape and define who you will be as an adult. And I’m terrified that, that adult will be some cheap, egotistical, narcissistic skank that we all will love to hate.

I see potential in you in becoming a beautiful person. It is too bad that you don’t let that happen. You let your face and body define your beauty. Not your silly jokes or quirkiness.

I want to be your friend. Someone you can rely on and talk to. But you don’t do that because for you, boys are just toys for you to play with.

-

“I know you lied.”

Golden.

When I was a young child, I used to do terrible things. I remember when my mother would make me angry, I would go into her bedroom, open her little red box of jewellery (which contained all of her rings, bracelets, necklaces and brooches made of gold and decorated with various precious stones and pearls) pick one that caught my eye and throw it out the window. I would watch it fly over the fence and let it disappear into the grass. Every time I did that, I felt shame and regret. But I was too young and angry to care.

Now, several years later, we are struggling with money. Poor and barely making enough for anything other than the necessities of surviving. I’m still surprised that she agreed to pay for my college fees, despite all of the stupid things I’ve done.

I know that I am a terrible son. But one day, I will make it up to her. I will earn money and buy her everything that she will ever need, and replace all of the golden memories in her little red box that I never should have touched in the first place.

Listen.

When a person cares about you, that person would want to listen to what you have to say. They’ll be quiet while you gather your thoughts. When a person talks to you, and you reply but he/she looks away or starts another conversation, then that person probably cares very little. If someone cares, they would want to know about your life. What happened to you as a child. How you grew up. The pains you endured and the joyful memories you’ve made. When a person cares and really wants to know you, they would ask. Even if it is a personal question. And if you stay quiet, that person will too, because he/she really wants to know, and being quiet allows you a moment to decide whether to share your story, or save it for when you feel like you want to share.

I know some people are defensive. They rather not talk about what bothers them. But I want to know because I care. Its sad to me that you don’t ask me back what bothers me. Or ask questions on how, why, when or where.

We have the simplest kind of friendship, and that will always be what it is. I’d rather be close to someone who cares about all my life. Not just the present.

You are very beautiful. I can see that. You let me in, sometimes. I just wish that you want me to let you in too. You know only what I do, but not what I have done or the things I’ve been through. I know all that of you. You know none of me.

Nice.

“You have a great big heart that is filled with love, and you want to share this, because you don’t think anyone should be without love (and you will often think “Like I am”). So, along with trying to show others the beauty that can exist with life, you also want to show yourself. And when that doesn’t happen, you don’t get angry at the world for letting you down. You somehow turn the tables and blame yourself. So I’m telling you, you are nice, and you should stop blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong. “

-

I thought this was nice. So I’ll post it, even though I still don’t understand why.

The longest shower.

I turn the tap on. I hear the squeaking. I hear the water flowing in the pipes. I balance the hot and cold out so it won’t burn as much. I pull the button and hear water rushing towards the shower head. It bursts into a beautiful rainbow as it meets the sun rays coming in from the window. Water flows down my skin. I pull my hair backwards with my left hand. I just wanted water. No soap, no shampoo, nothing. Steam rises from everywhere. I feel water running down my scalp. I place my hands on my face, scrunching my lips, my cheeks, my nose, my forehead. My hands felt soft. I move my hands up, pulling my hair back again. My hands go down back my head. I raise my chin. I feel water flowing down my neck. I grab my shoulders, my neck. It felt warm. I look down. I look at my hands. They were bigger than normal. They glisten from the water and the light. I was glad I had a window in my bathroom. I make a fist. I crack my knuckles. The sound bounces from the walls and echoes. The sound of water overwhelms everything. Droplets of water falls down my face. They land on the floor where my eyes were too relaxed to focus on. Hands are so much more beautiful when they are open. I look at my feet. My toes are wet. Coagulated blood flows from the corners of my toes once again. “Water gives me life”, I thought. And I should stop cutting my nails so short all the time. I turn off the water. Steam rises from my body. I wipe my face. I stand there. I felt my hair moving as water was drowning away from the strands. “This was the longest shower of my life”, I thought. I avoided looking at the mirror. I knew I can’t hide from my own eyes. I thought I moved on. I have, but something remains. But that is another story. And it’s too complex to be included in these thoughts.