The Silent Masquerade

Pretending to pretend to pretend to pretend to pretend

Original piece - Mask Of Silence (Reed pen, red and black ink)

That you don't ache for him the way he aches for her.

The Invisible Line

Sometimes, you look at someone who's probably the closest thing to you since God-knows-what, and you can't help wondering if it's all just fizzled out. The spark that was so alive when you were just getting to know each other, it seems to have gone out. Conversations seem to run dry faster than ever, fading away in a sick spiral of curtness and cool detachment. Is it because you no longer have an obligation to be engaging? Is it because you both take the friendship for granted? Is there an invisible line that you somehow cross when you grow too close after which the only choice is to grow apart?
Sometimes, if you're lucky, you're close enough to risk asking those questions. And sometimes, if you're lucky, you get just the right answer. The answer that puts everything into perspective. The answer that you never knew you needed to hear.

"Tell me something."
"Ask."
"Why are we friends?"
"Because we're there for each other."

And that invisible line you were so afraid of crossing? That's the beautiful part. It's when you cross that line that your relationship ceases to revolve around how much you have in common, or how well you get along, or even how similar your sense of humour is. Once you cross that line, it's about how much you care.
How willing you are to be there for each other.
Nothing more, Nothing less.

Of Ember and Flame

She turns her eye inwards, if only for a moment.
Ashes and dust. Dust and ashes. That's all she sees.
She can almost taste them, too. In the back of her throat.
They taste of regret and words unsaid. He doesn't know this, and he probably never will, but there are embers still burning under her deceptively placid layer of ashes and dust. Dust and ashes.
And if you look hard enough, you see they're still alive, with a quiet, muted glow. They're still waiting, it seems. No matter how much she wants them to stop, to just fade away, they refuse to. They're waiting for him to breathe life into them, so they can glow that much brighter. Ember to flame. Flame to inferno.

Fear

Of losing the ability to care.

If I didn't care, where would my inspiration come from?

If I bled my muse dry with apathy and indifference, would I still be able to create?

Would I even want to?

Matter of Perspective

Maybe obstinacy is a virtue.
You can always count on the stubborn, headstrong ones to be determined enough to prove you wrong if you doubt their sincerity.

Fleck Of Grey

Today, I noticed a fleck of grey at Baba's temples. Just a fleck, really. Nothing more. He caught my eye and smiled at me. I couldn't help but smile back. One of the things I love about him is that no matter how exhausted he is, he always smiles with his eyes. Always.
I remember when I was younger, I used to pester every grown up into telling me the Chronicles of Adulthood. And while they hemmed and hawed in agitation, not knowing how to explain the complexity of it all to a seven year old, I'd sit there in eager anticipation, oblivious to their evident discomfort.
What they never told me was that a part of growing up was watching your parents grow old.

Worth It

You convince yourself that you can survive this. Even though you're just giving, giving, giving - without asking anything in return. You convince yourself that it doesn't matter if he doesn't reciprocate, and you continue to give, continue to love, even if it goes more or less unacknowledged.

But what you never realised was how much you needed The Other's gratitude till you got it. How much you needed your efforts to be appreciated. To be seen.  How much you needed him to not just hear, but to listen.

And in that moment, when he does, everything else seems so insignificant, because even though he may not reciprocate you know, you just know, that you haven't loved in vain.

Redemption?

You know that feeling you get when your hard work pays off and your parents tell you how unbelievably proud they are of you? See, I don't remember what that feels like. At all.
It almost makes me want to cry. I would, I suppose, if I could.
But all hope isn't lost. I still have some more exams to go. One whole subject, in fact.
Redemption is still within reach.
Why is it so hard for me to try?

Moment of Lucidity

The advent of adolescence brought with it a massive shift in my perspective. I began to see the shades of grey in everything around me, as opposed to viewing the world through a singularly black and white lens. It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time, like I’d had some sort of grand epiphany and crossed over to some unspoken ‘Other Side’, where I could make my own judgements and feel my own emotions, independent of external influences. Well, more or less independent, anyway.

I think the most frightening part was how I began to see the flaws of the people I loved, including my parents. I think it was then that it dawned on me that we’re all flawed, imperfect beings. All of us. And while it was ridiculously frightening to see my parents’ imperfections, it was also comforting. In a bizarre, twisted way, it made it easier to come to terms with the more unpleasant decisions they made. Particularly those regarding me. I think it was the acceptance of those flaws that helped me finally stop beating myself up about my own. Maybe at some point it even helped me understand them.

Once in a while, I have these rare moments of lucidity when I can step into their shoes and see myself from their eyes before I snap right back into my own body and return to my drugged stupor of adolescent self-absorbedness.
Times like these, I can see their fears. Their insecurities. They see a world of potential in me, and they’re terrified I’ll never realise it. They see all that I can be, and more. They see worst case scenarios unfolding before their eyes. They see me never amounting to anything. I can’t imagine how helpless they must feel when they see me wasting it all. Pissing it all away. Sometimes, I wonder if they blame themselves. Sometimes, I wonder if they ask themselves where they went wrong. They gave me everything they could. And more.

It’s not you. It’s me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Maybe that’s why they lash out at me sometimes. I’m beginning to realise that harshness might just be nothing more than a garbled translation of their love for me. They’re only human.
Don’t blame them for their terrible communication skills when yours aren’t any better, you little hypocrite. 
It’s so easy to sit there and play the blame game. So easy to sit there and label yourself as the wounded, misunderstood teenager. So easy to just wallow in self pity because you’re young and stupid. So easy to forget that not everyone has someone watching over them. Looking out for them. Worrying about them. Loving them despite their flaws.
And I say this now, but I know that in a few hours, I’ll be back in my safe little bubble of selfishness and teenage rebellion. Good thing I penned it down before it faded away.

The Real Question

“Are you okay?” I ask.
It’s not like I don’t know the answer, so it’s really more of an expression of concern than a question. Or do I just resort to an empty inquiry because I have no words of comfort to offer you?

“No.”
That’s what I thought. Of course you’re not.

“If there anything I can do, let me know. Please.”
I already know there’s very little I can do, save be there for you. So it’s more of a gentle reminder that if you need me, I’m right here. Or is that what I tell myself to help me sleep at night?

“I shall.”

Let’s order something nice tonight. I pick up my menu. Hand you yours. A starter, maybe? ‘Small Talk’ sounds nice. Don’t want to order anything too heavy. Not yet, anyway.
I don’t think our stomachs can handle it. I don’t think we’ll be able to keep it down.
Maybe we’ll order Honesty for the main course later. Who knows? Or maybe we’ll finish our starter, tip the waiter and just leave early.
Either way, I’ll eat with you.
Read: Either way, I’m here for you.

At the end of the day, the real question isn’t even ‘Are you okay?’
The real question, I realise, is “Are you going to be okay?”
And the answer?
I hope so. God, I hope so.

The Evidence Suggests As Much

I know people who’ve been to Heartbreak and back. It’s a dangerous place, or so I hear.

That sounds strange. It’s like saying they’ve been to hell and back. Maybe there’s really not much difference between the two.

They weren’t ever the same afterwards. It changed them. Whatever it was that happened to them.

Was it love that happened to them?

No. It can’t have been. I’ve heard love is sacred. It’s beautiful and terrible at the same time. It can’t have been.

Perhaps it was unrequited love.

No. Unrequited love can still be beautiful, if you love the right person. Just because they don’t love you the way you want them to, doesn’t mean they don’t love you at all. Sometimes, that’s enough.

How would you know?

I wouldn’t.

That’s right. You wouldn’t.

How do you know the universe is infinite?

I don’t. But I believe it is. Because the evidence suggests as much.

Exactly. Because all the evidence suggests as much.

To Heartbreak and Back

They’ve been to Heartbreak and back.

Don’t be silly, Enn. Heartbreak isn’t a place.

No, but if it was, they would have been there. And back.

They’ve never really been the same since they got back, you know?

They seem happier. More carefree. They laugh more often, smile more easily, have more fun. There’s a throbbing vitality in their laugh. There’s a joie de vivre in their walk. But if you look close enough, there’s something different about their happiness. Something unfamiliar, that I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe I don’t understand it because I’ve never really been to Heartbreak. But from what I’ve heard, the place changes you.

The first to go was X. His metamorphosis was the first I witnessed up close. He hasn’t been the same since he’s gotten back. I don’t know if he’s always been an atheist, but I pray that it wasn’t this place that changed him. He laughs more often. Smiles more easily. But keeps love at arm’s length. Once in a while, his mask of joie de vivre slips and I catch a fleeting glimpse of a cynical, sardonic young man. He has no desire for any emotional investment whatsoever. None. And that terrifies me. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. It just does. Maybe because I don’t understand it. Maybe because I’ve never been to Heartbreak and back.

The next to go was Y. She told me “In all honesty, I think I’ve desensitized. Like X.”

I felt my stomach lurch uneasily.

You too, huh?

And the unfamiliarity of it all threatened to overwhelm me. Desensitized, she said. The idea was so tantalising. It implied vulnerability to all the emotions inside me that hurt. The rage, the longing, the jealousy, the guilt, the self loathing.

Would that I could shut mine off, too. God, I’d be invincible.

But no matter how much I wished to be able to do just that, I couldn't do that to myself. The fear of not being able to feel again was too potent for me to invite Heartbreak into my life.

That’s funny. Heartbreak was a city not ten minutes ago. Now it’s a person?

No. No. Shut up. Metaphors aren’t a priority right now. I don’t mind inconsistent metaphors as long as I don’t get sidetracked.

“I don’t know if I’m horrified or envious,” I confessed to Y.

“I’m trying,” she said, “to keep it this way, actually.”

Warring emotions resounded in my head. Curiosity. Fear. Envy. I was so conflicted. I told her as much.

“It’s helped keep me happy, get me through. So whatever.”

I cringe at the indifference emanating from the “whatever”. But I hold my silence.

“Whatever makes you happy is good enough for me,” I say.

Funny. That seems to be your mantra for everyone you love.

Z was the last person I know to visit Heartbreak. He still isn't back yet. I wonder if he'll survive it. Will he be as strong as X and Y? I don’t know what would be worse: if he never returned at all, or if he returned in pieces. Unrecognisable. Unfamiliar. Alien.

Would you be able to fix him? Would he even let you try?

You don't.

When someone who’s everything to you is bent on walking down an all too familiar path of self destruction, how do you stop yourself from running to them and dragging them off? When every fibre in your being is screaming for them to stop, turn around and let go of their pain, how do you hold your silence? When all you want is to keep their nightmares away, when all you need is for them to be okay, how do you convince yourself to let them do as they will? All these goddamned questions. They’ve been ringing in my head for days, now. I can’t find the answers. I’m not even sure if I want to, anymore.

How do I mend something that wants to stay broken?
You don’t.
Oh. Right. Because it was never really mine to mend in the first place.

Just An Illusion?

Someone once told me that truth is nothing but our own perception; that if you believe something to be true, then it is. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that’s not truth. That’s delusion.
But what if that someone was right? What if truth really is nothing but a reality that we ourselves have created? By that logic, I think it's safe to say that we’re invincible.
Or is that what we tell ourselves to help us sleep at night?

Ah, the comfort that comes with the illusion of control.

Oh, God.

You’re sitting around, minding your own business, when the memory just leaps into your head of its own accord.
Oh God, oh God, I thought I’d forgotten this.
It plays over and over in your head, the emotions of the Then seeping into the emotions of the Now. You cringe, flushing at the all too vivid memory of the careless words you’d spewed in a moment of reckless honesty – in a moment of madness. You wonder if that’s what holding it in does to you. Maybe there’s only so much you can take before you’re saturated with words unsaid and you combust spontaneously. Or is that what you tell yourself to assuage your bruised pride?
You remember how you caved and gave in to that compulsive desire to just throw all caution out the window. You remember how you just let loose everything that was simmering under your all too placid mask.
Oh God. Please, God. I don’t want to remember.
And even as you said it all, in your perpetually paradoxical state of mind, you were torn in two. Alarm bells sounded in your head, ricocheting off the walls of your skull. One part of you whispered words of encouragement, glorying in the relief it felt to finally be honest. Another rang with fear and panic, screaming frantically for you to put your mask back on.
But you chose instead to take a leap of faith. To take off your mask. To let go of your pride. To stop with the lies. Finally.

Funny how a whisper can drown out a scream, no?
You smile to yourself.
Oh God. Thank God I haven’t forgotten this.

Masochist

You close your eyes. 

You unclench your fists.

You resume breathing.

And your heart finally stops beating a tattoo against your ribcage.

It's all right, you tell yourself. Deep breaths. It's nothing new. You've been here before. 

The knowledge is comforting. But the words taste funny on your tongue. You imagine that's how they'd feel if you were thanking an inquisitor for torture.

You flex your fingers. There's a muted roaring in your ears as you try to ignore the throbbing in your hands. You open your eyes and look at your them - all raw and shiny. There are four little crescents in a row, where your nails bit into your palms.

A voice in your head sings. Hey. Hey. It's all okay. You know, tomorrow's another day.

You smile ruefully.

Yes. Yes, it is. Another day to play with fire.

You put the matches away. You put them away for 'another day'.
There's a throbbing in your hands.
A roaring in your head.

And a song on your lips.