the burning man

Each of us has heaven and hell in him.
What people decide, however, is which side of themselves they want other people to see. What they want them to know and which parts to keep hidden. It seems like decades have passed since I've taken the memories, the things that stormed my nightmares until I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't breathe and shoved them deep down, forcing them into a small piece of me that is caged off, never to see the light of day. All people can understand, all they can witness are the perfections. The smile, not too wide as to draw suspicion, but wide enough to reach my eyes. The family, the children small enough to still be adorable, but not old enough to start talking back. Not yet, anyways. But you probably know the party persona. The fireworks, the kaleidoscope of colours, the music pounding through your veins until your heartbeat syncs with the rhythm of the bass. People say that the opposite of love is hate, but I rather like to think that its enemy is fear. Hate is a network of tunnels, a fortress of walls and towers that I build to keep myself separate from the painstakingly oblivious world. But fear, it controls people. Their impulses. Emotions.

I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if only one hides it.