Masqurade Ball

My life's a masquerade ball. That I’m required to attend each and every day. Wearing the mask society has built me, as they continue to decorate it in new ways. After sixteen years of decorations, if you look closely little cracks are to be seen. Yet it never fails to amaze me how so many fail to peer through to glimpse at the real me. Maybe they're all scared a monster is lurking in the shadows underneath. They wouldn't be completely wrong for I am not made of completely pretty things. My life is like a grand novel with the genre unknown, full of adventure, and tragedy that few have ever truly known. I wonder if you began to read my story if you would make it through, or after a few pages would you close it and pretend it was never known to you. If I removed the mask would you be afraid? Would you hold the story of my life underneath a microscope or to an open flame? I wonder if people were patient to make it through the slow chapters, at the start, would the begin to truly understand why the pages are many, and what actually lies within my heart.  If people would truly know me for what I truly am would they look at me and not just come to see the pretty mask? So many people like to say they know me, and all that makes me who I have come to be, but how can you know someone if you don’t know them underneath? I am more than just a person who waves to each and every person in the hall, and I am a more than just a cushion ready to catch anyone beginning to fall. People like to say they know me, that they can relate, but until you strip me of the delicate decorations please don’t pretend to know me just because  I seem like just another face.