Mask of a Thousand Faces

Hunched over, as if trying to curl into themselves, a girl bites nervously at her nails. Her eyes, watery, dart around restlessly as if trying to spot some hidden observer. One of her feet taps nervously and methodically; every now and then the movement is punctuated by a violent kick from each leg, as if she is trying to shake water from them. Her hands shake and she rocks gently, trying not to focus on anything at all.

A smiling, well-presented woman sits comfortably on the edge of a table. Nonchalantly, she swings her legs back and forth. She talks animatedly, perhaps a little too loudly, but with precise articulation. Impatient to be heard, she buts into the dialogue before the other speaker has finished, somehow carrying enough poise and charisma not to offend in the process.

Drone like, the automaton repeats the same motions again and again. Back and forth, it clicks at the keys and points and clicks round in circles. Time passes but not noticeably, as the monotony of the blank expression and unfeeling state continue endlessly.

--

I am many things, of which a great deal are paradoxes. I am confident, happy, cheerful. I am shy, terrified, sullen. I am rude and polite, loud and quiet, hard and soft, powerful and weak. All of these things are me, and I am all of these things. I may be some at times and others anon.

It is exceptionally difficult to reconcile such an infinite number of identities, and understand myself, and be comfortable with it. Sometimes it is like trying to be several people all at once. One day I would like to allow myself to be all of the me there is, however many I might comprise.