We Wear The Mask
We wear the mask that grins and lies.
It shades our cheeks and hides our eyes.
This debt we pay to human guile
With torn and bleeding hearts...
We smile and mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world think otherwise
In counting all our tears and sighs.
Nay let them only see us while
We wear the mask.
We smile but oh my God
Our tears to thee from tortured souls arise
And we sing, but the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile
But let the world think otherwise.
We wear the mask.
-Paul Laurence Dunbar
When I think about myself, I almost laugh myself to death. Every word I write feels like a weathered scribble on an ancient tomb's wall. All with a contrived lifelessness. Because when I look in the mirror, I see only the masks I wear. The imaginary audience seated just behind my laptop screen. Frequently, I look out to them as my fingers falter in their labour, unmotivated as my mind becomes blank with the thought, "What do they think?".
It has been 8 months since the start of 2026, and I've written one article. I started this blog last year because I love writing, I love pouring into every paragraph with my thoughts and perspective. But as 2025 unravelled, I found each piece reflected less of what I wanted to write and more of what I thought people where going to like. We wear the mask to shelter ourselves from criticism or our own imperfections, to shade our faults for fear that some reader might form a less than brilliant perception of us. I spent my teenage years reading every book I could find, I was like a vacuum allowing no space for unconsumed words. I know one day someone, somewhere, will pick up a book with my name ablaze on its spine and flick through the pages. And this blog was my first shot.
I haven't given up. I just don't want to wear a mask when I write, I don't want to please and appease for the sake of subscribers and positive opinion. These next few months will be dedicated to restoring the notion of what it means to write for me; it is not talent nor precocious gift, it is a durational willingness to work on my passion and steward devotion. I am no artist and therefore I don't want to waste any more time in a pondering pose, the back of my hand glued to my forehead, mouthing myriad subtleties to imaginary crowds. I spent more time posing than getting the work done and the work of writing is all there is to be done. And maybe then, when it is all done, I can seize a moment to breath.
Issa.
