Really fake.

Some days I wake up and wonder just how much of myself I should show today. Not physically of course, but deep down, how much am I going to radiate for the general population to ogle at and soak in? Should I show any of it at all? How much do I want people to know and how much they do know are two things I have a difficult time controlling.

No matter how well-masked my thoughts, emotions and intentions are, someone somewhere is always able to read me like a book. Maybe I'm horrendously, predictably mysterious. I do my best to keep everyone and everything out. Separate my innards from my flesh, keep an iron curtain between the two. Alas, my efforts are often in vain and people who I can show the brightest smile to will ask if I'm alright, and the people who see the darkest side of me haven't a doubt in their mind that I'm perfectly okay. I'm not.

It often comes late at night, that gnawing, burning sensation from deep within me, a sadness I just cannot shake, a hopelessness that holds my fucking heart like a clamp, a loneliness that's killing me. I'll never understand why, but maybe it has to do with the lying. Maybe it's about time I stop broadcasting and start talking, really sharing. Maybe it's about time I sought help. Not some nutjob in a lab coat or a man in a box or a chair, but someone who genuinely cares, someone that I can relate to. I might know a person. I'm not entirely sure if that's an effective way of opening up and letting go, so fuck it I'll keep writing. I'll write until my fingers break and turn brittle and my heart turns to ash and my mind to applesauce, I'll write until the sun doesn't rise and tomorrow never comes, I'll write until every last thought of mine is wrung out for the entire fucking world to read and then I might be happy.

I should stop being a fake. Not the pictures, mind you. The pictures are all me, anyone can attest to that. It's just ... I feel a bit like a forced smile in a photograph - no matter how well done the shot is you can just tell they're lying, that they're unhappy. You can tell they're fake, and that's a bit how I feel. Don't be fooled by any smile in a photograph, I do it for the art. If you can call the pictures I rarely take art, that is. Who knows, I'm not the judge.

I wish I could stop this faҫade and drop the act, play the part I'm supposed to play instead of every other role. Some days I want to be who I really am instead of doing my best to disguise that from the world. Some days I wish I wasn't me.

(On a blog-related note, there is now a chatbox on the side!)

"You felt the coldness in my eyes, it's something I'm not revealing. Though you got used to my disguise you can't shake this awful feeling. It's the me that I let you know 'cause I'll never show, I have my reasons." Blood On My Hands by The Used