Masks

When I was a child, I understood a great deal. I was what you'd call ‘disturbed’. Luckily, as time passed I understood less. I became dull. Now I am functional. More or less.

One thing I understood was that every face was only a mask and beneath it was another mask, a maddening succession of masks, so that you could stand at the mirror all day, tearing off one mask after another, until the room was littered with masks wobbling in the afternoon breeze, smelling vaguely of feet, and you’d still be no closer to the face.

Eventually a blank face emerged, with only the shape of a face but not openings, no distinguishing marks, like a paper mache dummy or a corpse wrapped in bandages. This is the end, I thought. This horror is the truth, the face.

This awful certainty lasted approximately a minute before I noticed the blank face peeling away at the ears. A new succession of masks—red, white, gold or black, weeping or laughing or sneering—proceeded. The terrible blank face was just another mask tossed into the corner.

I don’t remember when I tired of tearing off masks. Certainly I never chose one decided to stick with it. Likely I was called to dinner—maybe there was something good on TV?—and just marched off wearing whatever mask I had on at the time.

Later I forgot all this for a long long time. Also, my mask appears to have become stuck. Odd as it is, I’ve become attached to it. Every day I daub at it with expensive useless creams. I am afraid it will fall off.