It is a sad world we live in. We are les miserables.
And very few amongst us can face this world. The rest of us live in illusions. Illusions which make us laugh, give us strength and confidence, and tell us that everything is alright. Each of us has his or her own illusions. And we support each others’ illusions. We tread carefully and protect our illusions like bubbles which might burst anytime at the slightest indiscretion. And when these bubbles burst, everything shall be destroyed.
I, too, have my own illusions. That I’m smart, and handsome and funny. That I can deal with any kind of situation. That I can live alone and be happy. And I’m sure that people around me struggle to maintain my illusions, fearing that if they don’t, someday, their own shall be broken. And over time, our illusions seem like the reality. Except that they’re not.
We create these illusions out of our dreams. We hate ourselves, secretly. But we wear masks of self-assured and self-satisfied people. Exactly like the actors on reality shows. But secretly, and I mean in the darkest and deepest crevices of our being, of our existence, there dwells an intense loathing for ourselves. We despise our anatomy, our laughter, our emotions, our awkwardness, our character. We hate the very lines on our face, and we mock at our reflections. We stare at our reflections long and hard enough and make ourselves believe that the person we see is not us but a stranger. But the hypocrisy of our society insists that we pretend to love ourselves and accept ourselves. But we don’t. Each of us wishes to be somebody else, someone better.
And the person we dream of, we strive to become. While, in the process, we abandon our souls. We lose our identity and then we ask ourselves stupid questions: “Who am I?” and “Why am I here?”
You are yourself and you are here, no why. The quicker you learn it, the better. The lesser illusions you have, the happier you shall be.