Anxiety: A Mask & Fucked Up Things

“I am a sick man…I am a wicked man. I think my liver hurts. However, I don’t know a fig about my sickness, and I’m not sure what it is that hurts me…I refuse to be treated out of wickedness…I know better than anyone that by all this I am only harming myself and no one else.”

The Underground Man

Why do we treat the ones we love the most with such nastiness? Well, I think I know. I have been doing this for a long time. As long as I can remember. The greatest nastiness is knowing precisely that I am being nasty. Knowing every moment of my nastiness while the internal contradictions manifest themselves in physiological infirmities. What kind of infirmities? For one: a tightness of the chest. And second, suffocation.

Why do these internal contradictions exist? Because I am fully aware that I am not a nasty person. Far from it. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I indeed love, I do not intend to offer pain. I love. I know that I do. You, however, may never know it. My nastiness will destroy you. Some may mistake me for having the heart of a ruthless conqueror. But it is I who will be ruthlessly conquered. Plundering, pillaging, and slaughtering myself until every ounce of human blood has been spilled.

On the genealogy of sickness — there were many sleepless nights laying on a dingy bed in a old moldy room at my grandfather’s house. At 6 years old with my eyes open in the darkness: “where is mommy?”

Perhaps daddy didn’t help either.

I have never seen a hell so cold. Is hell as schizophrenic as the weather? Is the weather as schizophrenic as my thoughts?

Hidden under this façade of happiness is a concealed horror. A weak infrastructure easily collapsed by the slightest touch. An acute force of pain only leads to a deep internal suffering. External perceptions of joy and happiness simultaneously existing with internal struggles of grief, depression, & anxiety — a forlorn, bleak, and glum outlook overcome perceptions of reality.

A persistent voice replays a wretched thought. Over and over again whispering in my ear. A quiet whisper filled with serenity offering a chance to relieve the pain — offering a peaceful sleep. It is without a doubt that the tightness in my chest and the subsequent suffocation have their origins in somewhere external. The voice doesn’t care the origin, it only offers a solution.

A Fibonacci sequence — masks compiling on my face. The absurdity of a stack of masks piled on top of a human face turns into a sinister image. Sunken deeply underneath that stack of masks lies the cold dark eyes of a living, feeling, fleshy vessel. A complicated human. The many masks easily switch like the refractive lenses on a phoropter. Happy, funny, cheery, optimistic, friendly, loving — these are just masks hiding the truth underneath.

A cosmic horror — minimizing our supposed humanity. Faces constantly changing to adapt, to survive, like a cosmic outsider, wanting to blend in to our surroundings.

“Apparent contradictions” — you once said to me. You were very perceptive.

None of these things are me and yet all of them are me. Layers of masks fused into my skin. I am a mask full of masks.





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