Over the months, I’ve feigned company and comfort and nobody can tell the difference. It reminds me, every now and then, that the mask I’ve put on everyday has become an invisible layer of my skin, making it a permanent thorn on each and every long-stemmed rose I have limply called my everyday; roses which beauty and magic I’ve feebly hid behind, thinking that when I choose to live a life different than what it truly is, it becomes my reality. Accustomed to being called the happy one and even mistaken as someone wounded but only with ones that have healed, I was happy but much more, I was lonely. In books, I fell for fictional characters. In movies, I fell with sappy love stories. I didn’t have to be alone. That’s why I leave even before I’m left because once in a while, I think I deserve to be happy. And on selfish terms, someone else to feel the longing then the pain. I learned my lesson. I’m particular on who I open my doors to because I’m afraid that if my fortress reaches over-capacity, I would have to throw someone out and they would feel the same thing I have felt on repeat; loneliness, tremor, solitude, ones that I swore I would never want to feel again but also the very reason why I open my windows for all the people I’ve thrown out and didn’t let in; to let them know that beyond my impulsive reactions are my hands that I can stick out the window. And if not that, a reminder that they were too good for me. Because I don’t try. I give up too easily and I let go too frequently. I am a warehouse of feelings dark and uncertainty. I am weak. And even in a a houseful, I’m lonely. But in this refineness, I have found the silence. The silence in which I found the noise in, one that screams actual sense. In this refineness, now I call my choice of confinement, the mask of a skin I call can be peeled off without seeming effort. No more lies. No more fake smiles. And I swear, I’ve never been a caged bird all my life but for once, I felt free.
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