Mask
When we think of the word “fake”, sometimes the first thought in our mind is the engraving found on countless objects sold in the U.S.A today. We have seen it repeatedly to the point that it has become the norm, an accepted reality, a growing presupposition linked to stereotypes. The three-word phrase is trite but garners a noticeable amount of attention — Made in China. Now, maybe I should clarify first: by fake I mean counterfeit, low-quality, unacceptable to standards of commerce. I do not mean to imply that all of China’s produced products are fake nor low-quality. Rather I am attempting to include the various products duplicated in slipshod manner and resold in areas like Chinatown and China itself. I can even go as far as to say that these products may infiltrate America’s homemade supermarkets.
It is this breach of the consumer’s desire for quality products that brings to my attention the idea of fake versus real. In most cases, consumers are completely aware of what they are purchasing. These counterfeit products have garnered a dark cloud of stereotypes and reputations around them. Therefore, they may or may not be easily spotted and avoided. However, with the deft skills of a conman, the consumer may be subject to duplicity. This can be in the form of a mere reproduction of a brand-name purse or even contamination from a poorly-made product.
So what is my real purpose then for expounding on this accepted idea? Of course, as I scour the contents of my inner-self, I discover a part of me that so often resembles these counterfeit products. It is the persona inside me that reeks of genuineness and its evil counterpart that deodorizes with falseness.
What am I talking about? I am talking about the tendency of human nature in this society, or so it seems, to play off as more superior than reality would reveal. We see it everywhere: jazzed up beauty models with forced smiles and seductive one-liners, enticing the audience of young girls and average women into believing that they could look like that. Well I wonder, then, what those models are like out of the spotlights and the cursor of Photoshop. In our society, we crave to be the person we were not created to be. We each have our own paths pre-written by God, yet along that pathway we spot out shining objects in the ground, a seemingly safe shortcut, or even the dreaded fork in the road.
So what happens to us when we decide to deviate from our paths to seek another us? We lose ourselves. We become the party-goer to the masquerade ball, forcing ourselves to hide our face for the sake of attending this particular party. We do it for the invite, for the chance to be a part of this pleasurable event. Unfortunately, we are not the only ones at this party. The resulting effect is a room full of mask-wearing, identity-hiding people who chose this path to obey the party’s explicit rules. All we see of each other at that party is half of the whole picture. The part of a human being that displays emotion — sadness, happiness, laughter, ingenuity, love — is veiled by the mask. We see the mouth, or perhaps not even the mouth! If it is the latter, we are faced with an expressionless face, in most cases, made of plastic or otherwise. It is stolid, unchangeable and forever molded by our inner desire to assume another form.
However, we do have some kind of optimism here. Behind the mask, we can still hear the emotion that belongs to the soul of the individual. You cannot get rid of who you really are completely, no matter how hard you try. The mask is trapping the real soul behind a fake covering, yet there are flaws in its design that allow the soul to seep in small quantities. I actually treasure this idea, for it resonates completely with how I feel about myself and society. I hang on to this hope that my mistakes will be forgiven. I was wrong to choose this path, and now I desperately search for the way back, or a way forward to the first path traveled.
As I stand now on my current path I have the mask on. I discourse with the other party-goers. They wear the mask as we talk, laughing and sharing our thoughts while our mouths are still, our eyes piercing but blank. In my desire to free myself from the path I chose, I begin to lose interest in the dullness of the party-goers. They all speak of the same things and all I see from them is the same expression: blank, plastic, fake. Nothing they say is really interesting when they seem so polished and opulent with their crease-less tuxedos and bedazzling gowns. I begin to absorb the idea of the whole: that this party has dictated the rules by which I am to follow; it is a brothel of only one kin. I notice the soul within me trying to break free, trying to reveal all its glory that has been suppressed by the apparatus of unity and oneness.
And as this goes on, the others begin to notice me. The mask is cracked now, contorted and askew. They all stare at me with their expressionless masks, although I somehow can feel their own soul burning. Except that this soul of theirs belongs to the mask; it burns with rage at the thought of a disobedient party-goer on the verge of causing a scene. CRACK. The mask breaks and the light covers my entire persona until finally my features are revealed: nose, mouth, eyes.
When the mask breaks, we are back on the intended path. Our frontal view is one of a straight, lit path and our hindsight remains cloudy and dark, or at least it should. The one disobedient party-goer had his mask destroyed, and he stormed out of the festivity, leaving behind a stupefied crowd of mask-wearers. Something strange had just taken place, yet unsurprisingly the same expression remains: not phased at all, uncertain but unwilling to express it. The party continues, but the one party-goer has been rewarded something most important in his act of leaving. On his correct path he discovers that he has been bequeathed a priceless, indescribable gift of individuality. It is one custom-made by the artistry of God, once contained but now forever revealed to the world around.
