Thursday, April 19, 2012

04.19.12 | My Identity a Masquerade

Is there really a face beneath these layers and layers of masks? Each mask gradually disintegrates and I am left with yet another crumbling fa├žade. Shards of mirror appear, lodged in these skins, attempting to reflect the beauty of the world but only catching a distorted, fragmented view obscured by paint. The once-vivid pigments are now dry and colourless and fall to the floor in flakes to join the dust. After these masks all fall, after the paint fades, and after each silvery piece of glass plummets to the ground and shatters into a million pieces, dust will be all that I have.

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