Do I want my archives to be read when I die? Would they distort what my family and friends think of me? They seem to be entertained by the performance I give them. I’m nothing more than a trouper with masks, each mask worn for the entertainment of each individual. The mask smiles, really happy. The mask is there for you whenever you’re down. The mask always knows what to say. The mask inspires you to be better. The mask makes you comfortable enough to vent. Nothing more than just a mask. Sometimes I wear the mask even when I’m by myself. I try to entertain myself. But can a trickster fall for his own tricks? Can a joker laugh at his own jokes? The burden of being the entertainer when the mask is heavy. If only I could fall for the trickeries of the mask, if only I could forget what lies beneath it. The closest thing to what’s beneath the mask is in my archives, hidden in the deepest, darkest cave, never to be seen by anyone. I fear even checking it. It is the closest you could ever get to maskless me. My mask is enough. Whatever is beneath it is irrelevant, even to you. It is like a brilliant actor with a nazi wardrobe; we hate the artist. Perhaps I’m destined to be a mask, the art separated from the artist, a saddistic entertainer who exists for his audience pleasure. When I die, my archives should be read as fiction. Aesthetics do not exist beneath the mask, only scars of my naked body.
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