A $300 haircut. A black Givenchy suit. A Lucky Strike cigarette artfully placed between my manicured index and middle fingers. These things, and all of their lavishness, are entities to a special mask. Every seat I take becomes a throne, I pose as if I am an emperor; legs crossed, and a wicked smile on my face. I appear content with the supposed power that I wield over the other party-goers, but they fail to understand that what I have constructed is a great armor. One that allows me to suppress my greatest fear, and fight before I burn. Lines under my eyes get deeper and deeper as each day passes and the cruel reality of death draws closer. I writhe all over my floor, hoping to peel away the impending decrepitude. The loneliness that comes with this unbearably large white bedroom is always too much when I am alone. Each time I leave, and insert myself into the social world, my mask reinvents itself.
