More isolation please.

About faux fur and a woman’s quest.

I think I prefer the hole I came from. After months of living masked and relentless, half laughing as I exclaim; I must really be unhappy, look at all the crap I’m purchasing! I’ve arrived; where I might never have left from, had I not moved locations and exerted every single ounce of effort to again attempt normalcy. A feat that has led me feeling superbly disconnected from myself. My game of pretend reached new heights, I almost had myself fooled. What I didn’t have, was time and space to be alone, and I did not realize until I did. I suppose I could shake my own hand and pat my own shoulder for a job well done- I’ve convinced lots of people that I, the one who is allowed full expression through aloneness and particularly through the written word and at present is present, don’t exist. The persona, the performance. They know her. She seems kind and self-sacrificing, a tad ditsy perhaps. I don’t admit it, but I think I am looking for someone to see through it. To not buy into it. To be smarter than that, see further than that and not believe my crap for a second. Someone who demands that I own up to me. Someone who does that for themselves— a role model. Someone to admire, someone to aspire towards.
I believe it’s an insult to people to mask up to such a degree- it’s an utter refusal of them, a disdain, a long stick with a pointy end- I don’t want you anywhere near, so this is the game I’ll play to keep you at bay. You’ll never know me.
I suppose whether I identify with the role or I identify with this narrator, I’m still attached to an idea. Married to a narrative. I’d like to blow it to shreds. I’d like to blow this created self to shreds. To watch while everything I built, burns. Crap construction anyway.