I have a story. No one knows all of it. I might have told some little parts here and there. No one knows me. They think they do but they don't. They think they know me, know what I'm like, know who I am from things they've heard or because I have told them part of my story. They judge me on that. What gives them the right? Nothing. I am an illusionist, a great one too. What you see is not real. I seem fine on the outside. I smile, I laugh, make jokes. I seem at peace with who I am. A lot of this is an illusion. It is an illusion because inside I am broken, I am scared of being hurt, I am screaming, I am insecure, I am sad, I am lonely, I am in pain. I have had my heart shattered into a hundred million pieces. Every piece of my heart wants to love. Almost every piece of my heart is scared to love. As the days go by and things keep happening to me, as people keep hurting me, as I keep hurting myself, piece by piece my heart gets filled with anger, with pain, with hatred. Now there is a big part of me, a part of my life, a part of my story consumed by this pain and anger and hatred. I wish it wasn't but it is and no matter how much I pray, how much I hope for all of the pain, anger, and hatred inside to leave me, nothing helps. So I try to keep it inside me. This pain trapped in my soul, lost in my story I cover it, I hide it away, I mask it with smiles and laughter that people see me with. I try to show everyone I'm fine, I'm happy, I'm good. An illusion. Still somewhere in my heart, in my mind, in my soul, in me, in the story that is my life, I know that on late lonely nights, when it seems there is nothing by me and my pain, it will all come crashing back. The story of an illusionist will reveal itself to me.
D D-H
