You’re just a kid wearing an adult’s mask. We all are. And we will be until the end.
You can cry. You can laugh. You can sing until your voice cracks, dance until your knees give out, and shout until the sky flinches. But you’ll never be the grown-up you pretend to be.
We are not mature by nature.
Oh, but you can play the part. Shoulders squared, voice steady, decisions heavy in your hands.
We are children wrapped in borrowed skin, our faces stiff behind the masks of adulthood. The world is a theater with lights too harsh and a stage groaning underfoot with its boards loose, splintered, and bending. Our costumes are too thick, too stiff, hiding the trembling hands beneath them.
Can you hear me, audience? Does the lie hold? Does the mask fit well enough to fool you?