Hide and seek

I see you are wearing a cloak. Hiding something, are we? What could that be now? What could that be? C'mon now, my dear, tell me. You can tell me anything, you know right? I can keep your secrets- cross my heart. Haven't I kept all your sad little secrets uptil now? Haven't I? Tell me now. Or better wait- Let's play a game. A guessing game.

Hmm... So, a cloak made out of ice with a concrete lining, woven with fine threads of indifference, rudeness and detestation. That is indeed an odd choice for a cloak, my dear. Let me think now. Let me think. You are using this cloak as a disguise, aren't you? A disguise against the world. You don't want them to see who you really are or what you are made of. I know you are scared. But wearing a disguise- how can that help you? Listen to me. I know you are afraid. Afraid of being seen naked- without your cloak. But this is not you. Look at me. Your eyes. In them, used to reside those beautiful portraits of love and tenderness. And now, there sits a bird of pretentious aloofness stretching it wings and the seldom flutters notifying its presence every now and then. I also see anger sitting in the corners watering the Poison Trees it once planted- they have grown so quickly. I see skepticism, sarcasm, disbelief, abomination and repulsion. I also see a dim flame of fear flickering in the background. This is not you. This cloak you wear has buried you somewhere deep inside. I know you are somewhere down there. You are afraid of getting hurt? Does all this protect you from the wounds that you fear. No! No, it does not. The blows continue to bruise you. Your wounds continue to bleed. So why use a disguise that is of no use at all? Why? This is not an armour, my love, that you wear. It is merely a camouflage. It might be made of ice or of concrete but somehow the spears permeate through it. This does not save you from the agony that frightens you. However, there is one thing. This mask that you wear hides your wounds. It hides the scars. It succeeds in portraying a false impression of your strength. It succeeds in fabricating your vulnerability into indifference. It succeeds in hiding your tears. If that is what you want- a camouflage. But why pretend? Why not expose your wounds, your bruises to those who inflicted them upon you. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Let them know of their ruthlessness. Let them know- for it is they and they only, who hold the antidote for your poisonous wounds. Only the hands that stabbed you can heal you, my love. 

And that, my dear, is the tragedy of your life.