What does it mean to be real?
How are we to be real in this world when the nature of our society is all placed. To be forthcoming and earnest and have one face, seems misplaced. How can I be myself if you want me to do as you do? Even when I decide not to, and to go at the game in my own skewed lane, you do not let me through. It’s always a challenge to be. Shaped by the contorts of society, who want us to fit but not become. Don’t be a string who rings before it’s strung. Your voice is beautiful - when we ask you to speak. Your energy dazzles - when we tell you to be seen. But be real, and don’t hide yourself. Be your ‘me’, but the me we want to see. Carry yourself and our judgements as you move only when we say go. We want you to know - but don’t act like you know.
Should we resent the fake?
So how shall we handle the fakes that you make? It’s not their fault but they fell to the mistake. They chose to abide then fell at the reigns, to the ones who taught us that we shall feign life to fame. This is not reality. But then again, it’s what’s real. This is not life to me. So how am I ought to feel? This is not comforting. What are we to do? This feels quite unlike ourselves. Must we press the mask on to get through?
Skin deep is too much for a mask. The wrinkles carve the age of deceit, in an age of deceit. To post unedited is to accuse without receipt.
The mask face.
Is this meant to protect us? Are we supposed to be safe from the disinhibited thoughts, the sinister realms of the minds which plague this Earth. Is this meant to restore us, to find peace albeit glass crystals, in the face of brewing concern? Are we better off going through life oblivious to the realities of the kin we never let in? Is this good enough? And if not, what else are we to find?
Who decides if this is okay? Shall we follow their decision anyway?
I have no idea what the right thing to do is. Now, I am sick of the turns the tumbles and the blows, take all that in a battle of social anomalies, to be left yet again on my toes. I see the patterns, I make decisions and mistakes, and I dive into why. In the tensions of madness, the hives rise on all sides. What is this place? What name shall I give a space where I know not how to be me, or how to be free, where I don’t want to walk in so aimlessly? I see them talking the game, and speaking the language, I have the skills, the insight to do the same, but am I lacking the bandwidth. I trained to present the image required of me, but to let that trickle into my actions, my reality? Doesn’t that seem wrong?
I’m not happy with speaking the way you speak. I know these different spaces require different techniques, but do I have to fundamentally change. The way I think will evolve all the same, but do I need to be what you want me to be, so that in this environment I’m allowed to be free? And is that free?
The page is where I can share my lack of rage. For although this madness makes me question so much, drives me to the stage. I don’t quite change. Not quite enough. And I’m not full of shame. Not very much. I see the patterns and I adapt because I too need to survive. But I don’t sacrifice - bare all to the flames to keep the illegitimate me alive. I compromise. My mind attests that it’s not enough, but it’s the best I can do. That it’s not radical, but it’s almost see-through. It’s almost as if I’m so against being fake that when trying to fit in this world I’m forced to be real. I can’t talk what I don’t know, and I won’t lie about how I feel. I will shut my mouth. I will learn it myself. But I will not conform to you. Should I ever try, my feet will not let me move. And I’m glad to be at their mercy, how the steps that they’ve borrowed, and the gut which rings -though I thought myself hollow- have saved me. Rearranged me, obtained me, when in another life I could have conformed, and gave to the dishonest within. I choose to be real, and it hurts with each win.
I do not want to watch people belittle others, and in the face of my disgrace I still know my place. Who am I to patrol? I barely manage my own tone. It does not sit right with me. But in matters of reality can I ever sit still? The encounter follows and recites itself to me. Yet I continue to not know what to do. Who am I if not myself? A vessel for your world. If I were to deceive despite myself, I would no longer be my own in this world. And I want to be mine.
Are the morals worth it to uphold? To me it seems real crystal, clear. To lie to myself just for someone to behold – a me who is fake on fear. It has not been a question of should I be myself or what they seek to rear me to be? It’s a question of how do I survive in a fabricated reality? Should we change the essence of this feature of our world, and allow life to ring true? Or shall we accept the deluded reality as it is, because this is just what humans do? I don’t know how to be anybody but me. And I can be different depending on the room. Sometimes more than one you can be true. For now, till I learn more I’ll carry myself, but not your judgements as I move only when life says go.
I’ll edited this later. I'm working to a deadline. Judge me if you will, and Thank You for your time!
