We break, we borrow. Our aching fingers clutch at shards of colour, bursts of opacity.
To hide behind?
Perhaps.
The whirling sequins and feathers are a flashing creation of mirrors. We are there, true enough, but we aren’t seen. We aren’t heard. At times, it is glorious: this twisted and molded version of ourselves, this dancing illusion of all things we aren’t. But we can never truly form, we can never truly be. We can never truly fool ourselves.
My mask is on.
And it’s getting difficult to breathe.
