I have written a lot here about masks and the ways I slip them on to hide the introverted boy. It is an easy way to dodge the responsibility of reality. It is a simple way to submerge my feelings. The rondavis mask is a great way to avoid some real truths (and it fits me so well, it's almost as if I created it myself).
But the lonely boy is tired, so very tired of affixing the mask to his face. The fumes were nice, at first, and it was easy to admire the mask's colors — all purple, so grand, so pretty, so badass. It's easy to get addicted to a way of thinking, easy to want to make it a way of life.
I can't do that. Not if I want to continue growing as a human.
Because masks never change, and after a while they grow tiresome, like anything else you're around every day. It's the story of Howard Hughes and the banana-nut ice cream. Love it for years, pay slavish devotion to it — but one day the urge is gone and you're stuck with 350 gallons of the stuff and you wonder what the fuck you're going to do with the evidence of your wasteful and ridiculous excess.
I am tired of the masks I have worn for so long. They have served me well; they have brought me great rewards and given me experiences rich enough for three lifetimes. But they have also given me false courage and kept me from showing my real face to the people who counted. Maybe they would have hated the real me, but I never gave them the chance because I was afraid they would have run screaming once they got a gander at the person who lived behind the mask.
Turns out they didn't like the masked man. I wasted a lot of energy propping up a false face. All for nothing.
As the monomyth continues, I must find the courage to try to show my real face to the people who count in my world. The risk: they will flee. The reality: they already have. There is nothing left to lose.