decepticons at our core, and only with a few people do we ever feel it's alright to throw off the mask and just quietly be.
(Or, as Mia said in Pulp Fiction, "That's when you know you've found somebody really special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably share silence.")
I have met precisely three people in my life who are that special, and I consider myself lucky to have known that many. They are not a daily presence in my life (and that sucks, but what's a girl to do?). With everyone else I am rondavis, badass bon vivant, and as far as they're concerned that's fine, just fine. It's fine by me, too.
Being known by someone is a lot of pressure. You'd think it would be the opposite — that not bearing the weight of the mask would make life easier — but the fear of being real can be a burden. A lifetime of toting the mask makes that load as light as a second-nature feather. Being real is unusual. It makes my heart race. It hurts sometimes.
(But it's also the best feeling in the world when I can just exhale and not have to pretend. I miss that feeling. A lot. I miss the feeling of my real face, the one that's almost always hidden behind the mask.)
There's also the fear of being hated for being who I really am. Everybody loves rondavis; he may be an asshole, but he's a likable asshole. Me — Ron — prefers the quiet to the riotous, the calm instead of the storm. He'd rather read a book than be the life of a party.
Tonight I'm going to hole up in my apartment and watch movies by myself. I would invite over one of the people with whom I can comfortably share silence, but I'm afraid of being rejected, even when I'm just looking to spend a few hours relaxing. This is one of those days when I wonder if I should just have the mask bolted to my face forever. rondavis never worries about being rejected; he couldn't care less. Ron, however, cares too much.