my friend doesn't believe me when i say i was upset
she says, at least you had enough composure to
talk about it and defend yourself. i answer with
an awkward laugh, "i guess i'm kinda good at
pretending i'm not crying on the inside," i say.
neither of us realised, in that one moment,
how true my words had been, not even me.
she laughed and still didn't believe me and i
never stopped to think about what i had said.
now, in the dark of the night, it catches up with me -
i am a master of disguise, dressed up as an
eighteen-year-old with a permanent smile, i am
the queen of all actors, with an optimism
that people say is my best quality, when it is one
that i have never had. i guess i'm kinda good at
pretending i'm not crying on the inside, because
that seems to be all i do every day, and it seems like
it has become what i am now.
there is an art to faking happiness for so long that
people say it is what makes you you, when really,
sadness is what makes up your soul.
it is a mastered art when you start believing it yourself,
when you have to think back and realise that
you were miserable the whole time, because
even to yourself you look happy in the pictures.
i guess we are all good at something, after all -
though, for me, it is not the smile that you adore,
or the optimism that has picked you up at times,
or the enthusiasm for trying new things.
for me, it is the art of faking a new me,
the art of acting in everyday life, all day,
the art of fooling even myself with the notion
that i could ever be happy.
