I’ve come to the realization that letting go hurts more than anything else in the world.
For some reason, we can’t help but cling to the images we create of ourselves for dear life. Those external floating projections that have come to define who it is that we think we are based on past experiences and feeling. What we have accomplished and failed to accomplish stick to our skin like hot wax and form a new layer from which we hope the outside world can learn to see us, all the while hoping and praying that who we are on the inside counts for something more. It’s a masochistic process, trying so hard to be liked, and yet we celebrate the colorful wrappings of a life in the spotlight, being praised for our talent, beauty, and intelligence. Afraid that we will be cast aside into the dark if we do not conform to the needs of the crowd. Playing to an invisible audience that desires nothing short of perfection, and so we rehearse. We practice and practice and practice until we can make it right. All the while losing a bit of ourselves with every time. Editing away the pieces of ourselves that have been deemed undesirable. Forgetting the feel of our own skin in favor of the hardened shell we have chosen to mask our ever receding bodies in.