Nostalgia of a Janus

She is loved by many not because of her true self but because of the different masks she wears. She’s a natural actress in the stage of life, assuming many roles. She can be buffoon just to brighten someone’s day.

But, do not be fooled by her. The sense of sight is the most untrustworthy access to what is real. What one sees with the eye is not necessarily true.

Sometimes she’s my best friend, but oftentimes my worst enemy. I thought I know her very well but I was wrong. For behind the scenes she presents is a whole lot different story back stage.

She’s a strong woman. Or so it seems. She may not be what everyone dreams to be but definitely adored for being an achiever. No cry, no softness, no laziness no pleasure; only duty, discipline, control and responsibility. She is a rock to anchor in times of tempest. She’s a winner. But do not be fooled…underneath the veneer of success or contentment is the injured self, the hidden wretchedness, the tears and flaming rage.

Admired for her strengths, she tries to carry the loads of people she loves and, in turn loved because of that. Like Atlas, she seemed to carry the load of the world on her shoulders and soon became miserably depressed. She sacrifices her individuality for the sake of the collective and, in turn loses her true self, assuming the role of a clown.

Yes, she is a clown, and strength is her favorite mask. She wears it all the time. Even if she’s bleeding, she still manages to smile and pretend to be invincible. She should not show her vulnerability because she will surely be hated for disappointing the people who expects too much from her. She always has to pretend to be strong, thus she is weak…really weak. For behind the mask is the fear of abandonment and rejection, the feelings of loneliness and isolation within the crowd.

She’s an Amazon feared by the cowards and adored by the weak because of the pretentious strength she flaunts to the public. However behind the show is a frightened little girl groping in the abyss, crying, and longing for a place where she could also rest. Her armor is nothing but a protective shell against her own softness, fragility, and vulnerability. She’s wounded, but suffers from striving not to acknowledge her wound – to be unable to weep.

Feeling that her armor is loosening, she hides from the practical, extroverted world into the world of books – especially poetry and fantasy. She’s a philosopher who always wanted to develop her mind and probe more deeply into the questions about the meaning of life, flying into the distant universes of illusions, disregarding the reality in here because it doesn’t fit her own ideal world. But then no matter what she does, there is no escape. Ultimately this gives her life no meaning. Her life is itself a bad dream.

She may be a clown during the day, but constantly afraid of the brightness of the sun for it may uncover the mysteries she conceal behind the masks she wears – the real face of a fragile, helplessly tormented soul, under the pretense of being a powerful and strong goddess. Like stars in a distant sky, she flickers dimly by keeping her self in darkness, living many mysterious lives, and circumventing clocktime by her illusory extension into the infinite.

How long will she be living a multiple personality? Neither she nor I know. I pity her. Regrettably, my love of her itself delivers my hatred for her.

I hate her for being too coward to be true to her self and show the world that she too is human just like everyone else, imperfect, hurt, who gets tired and also needs to rest. She has a strong heroic attitude yet seem to long to be acknowledge and pitied for her self-denial, acting as the poor defenseless victim. She’s an angel who refuses to see the other face of her reality; afraid to recognize her evil within wherein lay hidden possibilities.

She’s hurt but she cooperated with her persecutors. She does not allow herself to relax and enjoy the moment, nor to show any weakness, consequently putting distance to her own heart center. She’s a wounded soul but is a willing victim.

Indeed, she’s strong…strong to hold and hide her true self – the weak, suffering, helpless, shattered, tormented child within. And thus she’s weak…weak to let go of her masks, for she herself learned to embrace and love them. I loathe her for this for she, herself, succumb to her own paralysis…

I hate me!