A Mask

My name is Guy Garrison.

I am a nobody. Well, nobody I would like to be. Plain, plain as the cruel God above would have me be. Without any special talent. Absent of any remarkable ability. I am not the beating heart of any party. I bring not the light of the rising sun. I am simply here. Insufferably, obnoxiously, here.

I wake up. I accept the sin of life. I pretend for my family. I attend school. I socialise. The last bell rings. I return home. I rest. I wake up. A cycle. A hand on a clock. The notion of routine simply maddening.

There is only one aspect of my life that keeps me sane – if that is appropriate a word to use. It is the fact that I am insane. Surely that is paradoxical! Yet can one be aware of one’s own insanity? Can I know that I am probably – most definitely – mad? Or am I of some modicum of sane thought to examine the possibility that I may be…too sane? Hmm. Super sane.

My head is a cloud. The outside world is vast and senseless. My colleagues and classmates and teachers and friends are nought but an obligation to me. I want something more for myself, but I am not worthy of more. I am flesh. I am moving parts stripped of purpose. I am without identity.

I am only ever whole in the safe, quiet darkness of the night; through one single secret. My sweet, sweet secret, hidden in a pit.

In a man-made hole in my wall, buried beyond my belongings, is a mask.

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