There are several reasons why I haven't written anything here for a while, but I am not mentioning them all. One will suffice. Poetically, that one reason is the same substratum that establishes this piece I am writing aimlessly. That reason, that pathological condition, is none other than the pitiful act of pretending.
We are all pathetic pretenders. Some are good at it; some are still learning.
I have a friend of mine who is barely living by. He runs a register in a clothing store and receives a trifle of a monthly salary, and he can barely afford his one-year-old girl's diaper and milk. He and I had a phone call the other day in which we cracked many hardly funny jokes coupled with coerced titters. I also happen to have a relative of mine living with an incurable disease, yet she keeps on posting funny posts on Facebook. I have an ex-coworker who is married to an abusive husband, but she keeps on tagging him on romantic posts hoping he would change and become a fucking civilized amiable human being.
We are all pathetic pretenders. Some are good at it; some are still learning.
There is also me, someone whose mother has had a brain stroke that made her bedridden, nonverbal, and unable to feed herself naturally. My autistic child, as well, is barely showing any improvements. There is a look of loss in his eyes that makes me despise my helplessness. I, nevertheless, keep distributing social smiles fuelled by lukewarm vodka and innate fakery.
We are all pathetic pretenders. Some are good at it; some are still learning.
We pretend to be happy and contented, I pretend to be poised, and she pretends to be strong after that devastating emotional crisis.
We are all pathetic pretenders. Some are good at it; some are still learning.
Am I a good pretender?
 |
| Behold! This is I...pretending to be a writer. |
No, you aren't a pretender!
ReplyDeleteYou are a real one.