Unmasked
I’ve always loved the film Phantom of the Opera. Yes, I know
it’s cheesy and the phantom is the ultimate creeper, but you have to admit it’s
also pretty epic, right? Swordfights, romance, fancy costumes, Gerard Butler. Need
I say more? Such masquerades always seem to last until midnight when disguises
are removed and identities magically revealed. There’s something incredibly
fascinating about mysterious ball-goers dressed to perfection and hiding their true
selves from the rest of the world. Carnivale in Venice (which I got to
experience last year—talk about magical!) traditionally revolves around
costumes and masks and being someone else.
Masquerades and mystery and...misery? Place those masks in everyday society
and they’re still expected yet horribly misleading. Convenient in hiding
feelings but inconvenient in true relationships. Crucial in masking pain.
Recently I’ve been thinking through the pain we all
inevitably feel. We all experience pain. I guess I’ve always known that, but I
guess I still hold onto the fantastic hope that someone, somewhere
remains untouched by any hurt, escaping the consequences of life among sinners.
Wishful thinking, I know—that someone’s perfect appearance isn’t just a mask
and actually belongs to them. I suppose that wishful thinking has been spurred
on by the way we’ve all learned to handle pain and, ultimately, to mask it.
Of course I’m not advocating the idea that we all simply
complain more—of course not. But in a society which promotes such a heavy and relentless
amount of communication, there’s much less honest talking going on, isn’t there? Now I won’t bore you with a
monologue of my opinion on the dangers and distractions of many modern,
pointless, just-to-talk conversations, but I think we could all agree that
quantity doesn’t always override quality.
With all of this communication occurring, you’d think we’d
find a way to convey our true feeling, to convey our real pain; instead, I find
myself brushing over honesty to choose responses which fit more appropriately
into the stereotype of modern, everyday conversations. Just this week, I paused
in a couple dozen of those typical “Hey! How’re you doing?” remarks between
acquaintances, between real friends even. We’re basically faced with two
options with those greetings in question, and we have approximately 3.2 seconds
before we’re too far away down our respective paths to hear the reply: option
a) try to squeeze a summary of our entire mental, spiritual, emotional, and
physical well-being into that brief moment or b) respond with the predictable “I’m
good, and you?” Frankly, I usually choose the easier one, option b. Masking the
emotions, the hurt, the experiences—even the joy. With such limited space for a
response that differs from the expected, we can’t share our happiness either.
As I consider all this, I realize how guilty I am, how
misguided I am about the whole point of communicating. I ask how you’re doing,
but, while I may want a vivid, honest reply, I’m not really expecting one. I’m
not expecting truth in the short phrases my ears have already absorbed before those
words have even left your lips. I say I care, but how am I showing that if I’ve
already turned away, already mentally moved on?
Pain comes in so many forms—it aches and throbs and stabs
and smarts and sits there dully all the freaking day. It’s in your heart and
your head and your body and your mind and feelings you can’t even begin to
define. It’s there, hidden, masked. It increases as it goes unnoticed,
forgotten, ignored. I know you’re missing some of my pain, and I can only
imagine how much I’m missing of yours. When are we going to remove those masks?
Has the clock struck midnight yet?
