The Mask That Feels Like Skin
Someone asks how your weekend was, and the answer is a blank space where a life should be. You were everywhere, smiling at everyone, saying the right things, but now the memory is gone because you were performing a version of yourself instead of living.
You split the wood of your days and lifted the stones of your hours, yet the light that was there remains unseen. The mask fits so well it feels like skin, but the face underneath is tired of holding still.
You came from the light, a drop sent to illuminate this exact moment, not to vanish behind a grin. The terror is not that you failed to perform, but that you forgot who you were before the question was asked.
Drawing from
Gospel of Thomas, John
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