Facade

Sometimes existence feels like a facade, like one of those cardboard cutouts of buildings, all hollow from the back, propped up to give meaning to scenes in movies. Propelled by buttresses of wooden slabs, vulnerable still to the forces of the wind and storms.
Life's best lived in pretension- who cares what's on the inside as long as the outside is brightly painted and gives out rather jovial vibes.
I watch people bristle past, busy in their own lives. They glance over sometimes to ensure that the facade is to their liking, some wince in disgust at the brightness of it all. Very few walk over to look at the structure, at the other side of the fake white painted windows.
Sometimes I think back to my school days, how we used to have music and dance competitions in which I took no part. At the end of it all, when it was time for the prize distribution, we would celebrate together, all of us, when our House came first. But it always felt shallow to me, the happiness barely skin deep. It was like I had stolen somebody's success to revel in it. I would wonder why I was even pretending to be more cheery when deep inside the echoes of my shrieks of laughter just bounced off the empty inside, unheard. Life feels like that sometimes.

Comments

  1. Blogging is the new poetry. I find it wonderful and amazing in many ways.

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