Masks

We put on masks that, over time, stop being external and begin to merge with the skin. They cut into flesh and bone, slowly erasing what is alive and original within us — what we came into this world with.

At twenty, it feels like a game. At thirty, a habit. At forty, it becomes part of the genetic landscape and occasional moments of honest self-reflection. Beyond that, it turns into an almost invisible process of disappearance.

Time has its own laws for the body, but it applies the same laws to the soul: it either refines it like a precious stone or slowly turns it into dust.

We hide our inner Dorian, trying to deceive both the world and ourselves. But why?

In this race, there comes a moment when you realize you are becoming less and less. Dreams of greatness collide with the impossibility of feeling, loving, and burning as before.

And suddenly, halfway through, you see distorted faces — your own, your loved ones, strangers. All of you are searching, all of you are lost, playing with time in which there are no winners.

Sometimes exhaustion arrives, when everything feels both bitter and strangely clear: as if there is no strength left, no life left, meanings falling apart.

You begin to blame the world, circumstances, people — and, finding no answer, dissolve into the shared chaos.

And yet, one day, hearing a simple phrase — «I often see you dying» — you suddenly become aware of your finiteness. And it does not destroy you; it sobers you.

And then this inner analysis stops being a drama and becomes a reminder: you can still preserve what truly matters — fragments of wisdom, silence, love. And continue moving toward your dream, perhaps not as you did in childhood, but still — with faith.