the first time was nerve-wracking. The second time you tried it again, it still hard and you need to calculate every word you say, but it still leaves you uneasy. The third time, the fourth time, the fifth time, til you lose count of how much you have done that, til it is become your habits, til it becomes parts of you.
There is something inside it that makes you feel relieved. Relieved that the other being doesn’t know your miserable truth. You feel relieved that your rotten side—the one that you never want to lose to, is actually not visible to others (or it is a fact, until they found out). You hide behind it, as if it will protect you from any disaster, as if it can save you from being ostracised.
But now that it becomes parts of you, you don’t know which sides of you is the truth. You don’t know who you really are. You lose yourself into it, missed it. The versions of yourself that you tell to other people are piled up, it becomes a mountain of characters you have played. Now you find it hard to find which one of it that you need to use to shield you for the right moment?
Until at the end, you find yourself gasping for air, as if the truth is strangling you from saying the truth, it chokes you, it pulls you hard that you can’t seem to be your honest self, the you before it all happened.
You have lose yourself from it.