Facade

It's a bit sudden but listen seriously to the question I am about to ask and think about the answer carefully.

Is it alright to be upfront in this society instead of putting on a facade?!

Everyone talks about speaking their mind, the reasoning that they have clogged inside their head. But no one, literally no one cares about it at all. What you see, what you feel, what you understand, everything is just a by-product of the false front that you experience in your everyday life and put it on yourself in some instances.

Different campaigns run throughout the four seasons regarding various difficulties that we face every day, but no one provides a substantial key to it.

The answer is no.

I am not suggesting that it's impossible or has never happened before. It's simply a conclusion that I arrived at after looking from both the perspectives, the person and the society.

Instead of indulging in these lengthy explanations, it would be better to explain them with a simple example.

Have you ever joined a fest, on any type of occasion in your school or university? Most of us have, and for those who haven't, well…

So, let's be more efficient. Various performances are held during a fest including, dancing, singing, speeches, and many more. Many groups or individuals perform extraordinarily well while some remain in the range of decent to average. But what about those who mess up the show while you are spectating it as an audience.

You feel irritated. You want it to end as soon as possible. But do you dare to express that feeling in front of everyone? In front of everyone, I say!

Of course not. You will be fucked up.

Why? Is it because you told the truth? Is it because you are weird? Is it because you have a different insight than the others?

Nah! It's nothing that meager. What? You don't know?! I see, let me enlighten you then.

The day you were born, you were stamped with a seal of a dork. A pinhead moron with half of their life sold to the devil in exchange for living the other half of their life without being treated as an outcast.

A piece of shit whose wisdom is already sealed and is only left with some grains of democracy, which he/she perceives as his/her life.

Now, there will be different reactions to your actions, depending on the people around you. This has happened with every one of us, once in our life, so don't be a killjoy and just choose your scenario from here.

Most of the time, we sit near our friends, if not, then you unlucky brat, I feel sorry for you. So, you see many people in the audience, booing and slandering the artist. As you look at them, a part of your sealed wisdom unlocks for a brief moment and you join the parade. Most of the time, it's fine, I mean, yeah, but the shit goes down when everyone zips their mouth and your endorsed roar pierces the silence, going right through the heart of the artist, shaking him/her from the inside.

At that moment, you know that you messed up.

Two types of stares are directed at you. First is the one by the goody-two-shoes people who have the future of the entire country in their asses and the latter being the over-confident and delinquent type, somewhat shocked or impressed by you. Nevertheless, everyone feels pity for you when the aura of the entire zoo, the teachers, starts to flare up and the mini sparks of that flare start to burn your conscience from inside.

Most of the time, the teachers either forgive you indirectly since the occasion goes on with everyone ignoring you but if they are deeply offended by that remark, they can't do shit.

You know, the best part of getting mixed in the herd?! You can do anything you want without being afraid of getting caught.

But its validity expires when you have a sneaky hypocrite hiding among you.

So, let's consider it a worst-case scenario. The artist lost all his confidence and ran away from the stage as a dimwit. Basically, this time you are the one who messed up the entire show. You know what's going to happen now, right?

Each of them present there is aware of the fact that the performance was godawful, but no, they won't speak up. Why? Because that would hurt the goddamn sentiments of the person. All the preparations and all the time spent over it will turn into waste because of a single truth.

Basically, you are the bastard right now.

Now, for those who feel quite confident and satisfied that they don't regret what they did, well, bingo, no one gives a shit. The outcome is not going to change just because your perspective is different.

If you want to survive in this society, you need to become a part of it. And, there's nothing wrong or shameful in doing so since we all are already a part of it unconsciously. The difference is that some are aware of it while others just don't give a damn.

This is the reason why I hate this society, and… I hate myself for being a part of it.

If you think that I am weird for using up all your time just to mention the indifference and my point of view towards society, then yeah, I am weird. I can't change it since it's in my nature.

Or so was what I thought.

"How long will it take, Ciel?!" A lady bawls from the other side of the door and yeah, she is my mom. My new mom to be precise.

With weary eyes, I peer at the resonating door and sense the flow of the cold blood running down my legs, compelling me to close my eyes and understand the in-depth beauty of the fictional world that my brain had established for me, my sweet dreams.

I am not on drugs if you had any doubt about it.

"It's not the right time for you to hibernate," the knocks on the door cease for a moment, and then with a loud bang comes a high-pitched missile, "Get up you lazy ass bastard!!" completely obliterating my under-construction dreams, making me realize something.

'I was dozing off again,' My eyes widen up as if someone is trying to stretch my nerves from my pupils.

Currently, I am in a weird position, no, not in the way you are thinking. I am talking about my snoring position.

My head fibbing against the hard corner of the wooden table, with the sheet interposing between us. My chest and the torso acting like a slide for Lilliput, or maybe acting as a bridge for insects, who knows. At last, my legs, starting from the hips, laying numb on the tiled surface with no care of the world, a perfect sleeping pose, isn't it?! …Probably not.

Pushing my hands against the surface, I push my body above and stand up, a little unbalanced, apparently a side-effect of being half-asleep. I am finally awake with the ability able to interpret my current situation. Just kidding.

"I was just wearing my pants Mom!" I look at the door with a grin and shout with the adequate vocal needed to reach the other side of the door without much effort. I wonder what her response will be.

"Are you wanking inside or what?!" With a subtle tone, she conveys what's in her mind right now without a damn filter.

"Mom!!" I shouted, contradicting her statement with a single word.

I am literally embarrassed to the core. This is the moment that is engraved in my memory forever. What, no, how did she even say that? This could've been my first reaction if it had been my first time hearing something like this. I am still embarrassed though, don't take me wrong.

"Come out quickly now. I don't want to bribe the guard for you being late after feeding a lump of money to the school, for straight three years." After saying all this, she walks down the stairs, waiting for me to arrive, I daresay.

This is my reality right now. Three straight insults are thrown at me like a metal bob, one of which struck at my most sensitive spot. And I am talking about my brain.

I don't think there's much to prepare since I am already done with the clothing. Just need my belt and the pockets. I walk towards the end of my cupboard and pick up the wooden sword stuck in a leather pocket, lying beside the left end of the cupboard.

"Yes, Good to go," I said while attaching the pocket to my belt, together with some spare packs. I unlock my door and start moving downstairs.

While halfway there, I look at my Mom standing, staring at me, or maybe not.

'Looks like I am not the center of the attention,' I mumble as the thing that allure her is not me but my unique clothing.

"How do I look, Mom?!" I am trying to act like this but to be frank, this is what she gave me to wear, so the answer's simple.

She sets aside the strands of hair disrupting her view, with her nails and slides them to the back of the head, along the ears. With a smile on her face, she starts to speak, "That's a hundred zen cloth for you, truly a garbage," ah, I forgot to tell you, a cynical smile.

I bet you don't know what's going on right now. But don't worry, I am here for you. Let's dial the clock, a few days backward.