The pain is everywhere, growing and expanding, echoing and reverberating, filling every pore and every cell.
All is calm as the pain rests, prepares to awaken, prepares to unveil and unleash itself.
Everyone wears their Acting Mask, everyone combs their hair, checks their clothing for wrinkles and stray cat hairs, rearranges their facial features to smile mode.
Conceal your pain, so demands The Matrix. Conceal it from Yourself, and conceal it from others. Everything will be alright, even though nothing has ever been alright.
Should I kiss you, or stab you? Should I hug you, or shoot you? Should I shake your hand, or cut it off with a chainsaw? Should I smile at you, or rip your smiling face to shreds with my carnivorous teeth?
Wear your mask, pay homage to the social trance that everything was, is, and will be, alright.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much.”
Small talk for small minds, minds ruled by pain.
Pain everywhere, patiently waiting, to be acknowledged and reflected.
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