Masquerade Ball

“So afraid of suffocating, we refuse to explore the depths of our souls, only to drown in shallow puddles of ignorance.”

Our world is a masquerade ball.

The moment you were born, you entered the ballroom.

As a child, you stood amidst grown-ups gowned in elaborate tuxedos and dresses. Glitter adorned their clothes and hair. Joyfully, they danced to Strauss’ Blue Danube as colorful lights bounced off the walls. On their faces, they all wore masks. Some of these masks were covered in thin layers of gold, others had been formed from simple paper-mâché, but one thing was true of everyone at this ball: No one ever removed their mask.

As you grew older, you realized that you were the only one wearing your regular clothes, so you started crafting your own elaborate costume. Once it was completed, you proudly slipped it over your head and joined the masses on the dance floor.

But something still wasn’t right. Everyone could see your face, while you could only hear their voices. You felt your face reveal your anxiety, your questions, and your confusion to the crowd. And so, you hastily gathered fallen scraps from the floor, fashioned yourself a mask, and pulled it over your face.

You became one of them.

And you never took off your mask.

Song and dance continued, and the masquerade lasted late into the night. As chance would have it, one particular dance brought you near a large window. The dark of the night had turned the transparent glass into a mirror. You gazed into this mirror and saw a reflection staring back at you. The reflection’s suit glittered. Its feathers swayed with your every move. A splendid mask rested on its face.

You stood in awe of the sight you beheld.

“This is I”, you proclaimed proudly. And it was all a lie.

Our world is a masquerade ball in which everyone wears a mask.

And so, you too wear a mask.

It hides your face, and so too, it hides you.

And at this masquerade ball, you become a dancer who does not step out of line.

At this masquerade ball, you become an actor portraying a caricature of yourself.

You follow your script until the actor dies; then all that remains is the role itself.

And so convinced by your performance, you believe you are the mask instead of the face beneath it.

And in this world that is a masquerade ball, the only remaining authenticity to be found hides in the creativity of the lies we tell those around us. And we begin to believe the lies ourselves.

One mask has feathers; another has glitter. Neither is honest. Both conceal.

And you don’t. Remove. The mask.

Ever.