THE OPEN MASQUERADE

Who is Behind the Mask?

Like a ball of the century; with so many colourful gowns and suits; different shapes and sizes; assorted brands and designs; similar tastes in fashion and yet so different sense of style.

Like a brood of vipers; eyeing their next victim; frightening as they attack with lightning speed and faultless precision; and fascinating in their boredom after a conquest.

Like a pack of hyenas; mocking danger with their annoying laughter; seemingly fearless yet very alert with their eyes on the nearest exit; hopeful for an uneventful escape.

Like peacocks; strutting about with pride in the beauty bestowed upon them; spreading their feathers for all to admire and yet full of envy for the little sparrows.

Like the never ending ball of the world; where we participate yet feel left out,  laugh out loud but full of pain, smile at other guests yet full of malice, being polite yet full of rebellion.

We dance with merry, feeling the pinch of our toes inside our shoes with every step; grimacing with every jump; disliking the music and yet hiding our relief with supposed longing when it comes to an end.

We mingle and yet remain single; surround ourselves with other guests and yet feel alone; we appear sophisticated and content yet clamour for attention with our glamour.

We find ourselves in groups for strength yet feel powerless by the second; we join the choir to sing in harmony yet lose our voice in the discord of unity.

Everything appears to be bright, beautiful and harmonious. Everyone is where they belong, posing for the perfect picture; under the bright lights of an unseen Host; acting out our parts for the lens behind others’ eyes; sticking to the status quo, obeying the rules of the ball; being picky with what has been offered yet feeling a deep pang of hunger; taking a sip at a time yet with throats parched from thirst.

Like a chameleon protecting itself from prying eyes; we blend perfectly with the tapestry of the charade and we settle in comfort as we find safety in the disguise; skilfully changing colours to suit every situation and this is lauded an original fine art as we unwillingly hide in plain sight.

Like a carefully interwoven ‘Kente’, different shades of our charade and the bright colours of reality blend into the most believing yet highly conflicting fabrication.

We are recognized as we approach, held in high esteem for our expert control, applauded for playing along and yet inwardly cringe with the unsettling feeling of unworthiness.

And then, like water breaking a dam with the force of its release, like a volcano erupting in flames of lava, like a high-strung arrow being released from the bow, like a woman on the brink of madness in labour pains, like a man finding release in the heights of pleasure and pain, like an offended cobra, our inner selves awaken with an uncontrollable force in frustration, anger, and tension; passionately overriding common sense, unexpectedly lunges and fiercely takes a poisonous and deadly bite out of our façade.

'revealing who we truly are under the harsh scrutiny of appalled guests.'

Like a prize horse fallen in battle and wheezing for breath, like a cockroach kicking the air in a desperate bid for survival, we desperately yet failingly cover up our flaws, weaknesses and incompetence, revealing who we truly are under the harsh scrutiny of appalled guests.

Like ice placed in the sun, we slowly melt into our original state of matter and trickle slowly down an unknown terrain.

Like a sore thumb we stick out, red and throbbing in an unforgiving atmosphere.

And then like a rejected record, we trudge towards the unopened doors of rediscovery, feeling exhilaration with every step, seeing the brightness of hope in the dark alleys of self-actualization as we leave the lights of drama behind and finally bloom into the hit song in a sold out album with a famous label.

Like a legendary icon being celebrated, we look back at the entry of the old abyss we had sprung from and nod gratefully at the unseen host who had watched us get evicted from the ball.

Hoping that soon, the other selves left behind, who have lost themselves in the act of life, will recover from the stupor of fear of the unknown and the sting of dejection and find the way to their identity.

And finally, when the Host slides the trap open and bellows: ‘Cut! It’s a wrap!’

I will, with every hertz of energy left in me, echo the whispers of truth and fervently hoping to be understood, shout: ‘Run! It’s a Trap!’

 

Don't Be trapped behind the Mask!