Reality's Illusion

A glimmer of hope could change my perspective, a chance encounter, a random person smiling at me on the street, a friendly cashier. The tiniest of meetings has the potential to save a person's life-literally. So much of who I am is hidden from the world, although I believe that is true of most of us. If people were to step back to evaluate who they truly are, they'd find dual personalities: the person they are when no one is watching and the public persona they allow others to see. I can't prove that, but I think it's true. Most people don't know who they truly are because they are afraid of what they might see if they examine themselves too closely. Humans are truly frightening beings. The public persona is what saves each of us from ourselves-keeping up that appearance, not allowing anyone to see the ugly truth-preventing destruction. I am no different than anyone else. My self is ugly. The only difference between me and the majority of people in the world is that I see her-my self-daily. I talk to her. I know my self intimately, and, I admit, I hide her fiercely from the world. If people knew her, my life would be vastly different. Most days I am able to disguise her fairly well; the days she won't stay in the closet are painful and difficult to get through. Those are the days that the chance encounters keep me from going dark. Bastian Thames. Chance encounter. It has been years since I've seen him, and I was essentially a child then. I heard somewhere along the way that he'd given up painting but never really believed it to be true. An artist doesn't quit; their craft is who they are at the core-it would be the equivalent of committing suicide. When his name popped up on my friend request, that beautiful face...it was just short of euphoric, but at the very least, it probably saved my life that day. I am a sculptor. It's the only thing I've ever done. I love art of any kind, but getting my hands into clay is heaven. There's nothing else like it-the feel on my skin, under my nails, the way it dries out my hands. But ultimately, it's the control the clay offers; in a world where I'm powerless, that captivates me. I become a god when I'm sculpting-creating and molding something from nothing. If I can envision it, I can create it, bringing life to things that otherwise won't exist. That is power, and it is exhilarating. I feel it in every piece I shape. But aside from that, sculpting is an escape. It's a place where people can't reach me-they can't touch my soul. I live in that world to escape reality. My reality is a self-induced hell. The bruises keep coming. I continue to hide them. I justify his behavior by convincing myself I deserve it-that the pain keeps me on edge and benefits my art. The greater the suffering, the more brilliant the creativity. It's true of all great artists in history, and I need it to be true for me. I had survived one of the worst nights of my life the day Bastian appeared on my f******k page. With fresh bruises showing through my pale skin, I was certain at least two of my fingers were broken. And since, Bastian is all that has kept me alive in the year that followed, but even he isn't enough anymore. He can't change who I am, and he can't win the war that wages in my heart and mind. Hell, he can't even help fight the battles. The sting of the water makes that reality more true. I can't hide behind the illusions anymore. With the pain comes the realization that nothing will ever change. I will forever be bound by that constricting hell. I would chase happiness as if it were a prize to be won or auctioned off to the highest bidder, but the truth is, it doesn't exist. Everyone always marches toward the next destination, the next stop on their journey, trying to make it to one more end, but the culmination of those experiences never gets them to the nirvana they seek. Utopia isn't an achievable destination on this side of eternity. The prickly cold fades the deeper I sink. I don't attempt to hold my breath as I succumb to the force of nature and allow myself to relax. There's no drive to make it to the surface with the weight of my burdens taking me farther down. The darkness brings me the most peace I've felt in years. No sound. My body goes numb. I allow it in. Time ceases to exist, and my mind drifts through the events that brought me here. There was no good, no joy, no self-sacrifice. I am nothing but a speck in the universe. The cold courses through my veins like heroin, one last fix. The last few minutes play over in my mind, walking down the streets, Bastian calling my name. Sera. Seraphim. My mother had no idea she bore such a dark angel. My fall from grace was hard, evident by my broken body and soul. My only solace in the suffering I've brought others is the release they'll soon feel, eliminating the burden of my truth and who I've become. No one will ever know my punisher's truth, not from my life. Other than Bastian, no one holds those squalid details. In the end, we are all liars, tellers of the tallest tales. We masquerade as daydreams of whom we hope to become, weaving the intricate storylines we want the public to read. No one's story is the one the cover presents to the reader because our false personas are the only truth we allow others to know. We long for a place in life that has never existed, and we drone on, hoping to create an illusion that differs from reality. Ironically, happiness was the true chimera-reality's illusion-it was the one thing we all hoped for, but in fact, is impossible to achieve. Knowing that truth allows the end to come easily. The silence offers reconciliation for the lies the world perpetuates.