Synthetic
My whole life is a fake. A lie. A sham. A mask to guide me through the motions, and to hide my true face. Outside, I'm ambitious, motivated, focused. Inside I'm lonely, depressed, and confused. A complete and utter wreck. My mind, my soul, my sanity is in shambles, and I can't pick up the pieces. All I can do is hide.
Huddling in the inner recesses of my mind, the lie takes over, the mask slips back on, a repetitive tune. The same old song, the same old notes. Over and over, without end. My true self is a jumble of notes; sharps and flats shoved together out of harmony, without rhythm, a tuneless noise. And every time I hear my real self, every time the true me plays through, I shove it back in. Turn down it's volume, turn up the synth's. Let the synthesized voice cover u p the true piano's mistakes. Run the recording, stop the live performance. Because if anyone gets a concert, my synthetic world will come crashing down. And then where will I hide?
So I go through the motions, I live the lie, keeping myself in the background. Let the mask take center stage. Let it have it's solo, a never-ending song, as long as I can stay hidden. As long as I'll be safe.
The same old song, the same old notes. Over and over, without end. The repetitive tune, masking the discording notes in the background. But none of it's real, it's all just a lie. Fake. Untrue. A synthesized simulation. I wish I could stop, I wish I could cry. But I can't, and I regret it.
Because my whole life is synthetic.