Emotions are foreign to me;
I wear their masks to feel human.

Envy, greed, love—I’ve tried them all.
The pen in my hand won’t rest,
driven by the need to write, to taste
what I cannot feel.

Yet behind each mask of deception,
something slips away—a piece,
a fading glimpse of the place I sought,
drifting further from reach.

So I write, tracing each mask I’ve worn,
though my own face, buried in time,
fades beyond recall.