Masks: An Elf Story

    • Masks: An Elf Story

      Dearest diary, impartial listener to whom I may pour out my soul and cares without worry of rejection or judgment, wholistic healer and mirror of my heart...

      Why in Titania's name do I bother keeping my mask affixed, even here? Such overwrought tripe and foolishness is scarcely the objective of this exercise. Exploring one's self within the pages of a journal remains a valuable endeavor, or such has been purported. Hence, I commend my being to paper and ink, eluting my own desires and secret wishes to reality, cloistered within covers and possession though they may be.

      When one's reality and daily routine involves evoking emotion in others, one scarcely has time to explore one's self. I have long asked myself, "If one becomes the mask, what becomes of the one?" No answer is forthcoming. Have I truly become a blank slate for the playwrights to work their art upon? Is there nothing left of my desires, my own preferences? If the death of the author becomes reality, then has the author died? Or the actor, in such a case as mine.

      And yet, I cannot wholly agree with the gnawing, aching terror that I am lost, swallowed by roles and masks, enveloped by livery and costume. That I may still formulate the query regarding my own person suggests that my dissolution is not complete. I have not surrendered my self to oblivion beneath the artistry, such paucity as remains. The utilization of "I" in this capacity suggests that something of the actor remains beneath the masks, separate from the roles. As a result, perhaps the actor should withdraw from the role for respite, a taste of exploration given to his own desires and interests, outside of the stage and illumination of the script.

      There is someone at the door. I shall return to these musings forthwith.

      Lady Alejandra obliged one of her retinue to deliver a lovely violet umberbloom to my quarters, with a perfumed note praising my performance. The bloom, long a symbol of favor and passion, appreciation and admiration, wafts its scent about my head, in an intoxicating perfume of blessed release. Still, the heady olfaction is helping to clear my muddied thoughts, and as I turn over the card, a more clandestine invitation than the open praise of the initial appearance of the correspondence meets my surprised gaze.

      I will return, dear diary. I have an engagement with a certain Lady. This shall be without obscuring mask or enveloping costume, though not, perhaps, without performance.

      The post was edited 2 times, last by Zyblen ().