Masks

I wrote this in my Creative Writing journal.  It's a rough draft, so I'm sorry about flow issues.


I stand on foot bridge suspended over a swollen river.  I stand against the wooden rail and watch while the sun sets over the thick forest.  
The sky is bathed in a swirl of yellow, pink, and red.  Vaporous remnants of the afternoon's thunderstorm swim lazily westward.  
Unlike other evenings, I did not come here just to watch the sun set.  
I reach into the bag slung across my chest and pull out the reason.
The object feels like an old friend.  It even smiles up at me with a perfect, painted mouth.  All the things people have expected me to be stand accusingly in black letters on the smooth white surface. 
Perfect
A+
Beautiful
Well-adjusted
Friendly

It sits perfectly on my face when I put it on.  The upturned smile covers my own downcast one.  I feel complete with it there on my face, much like a child who carries a blankie.

I remove it, feeling like a part of me is lost, and watch the sun saunter below the horizon.  

I inspect the item one final time.

I take a deep breath and hold it out over the muddy water.  

I close my eyes.  

I breathe again.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

And... I let go.

I open my eyes in time to watch it hit the surface, dunk below, then float.  As it drifts away I imagine it floating out to sea and settling in a trench or being found by an artist who repurposes it.  

I watch it float off and feel a little lost.  Who am I without that?  

I turn and walk away.  That isn't me.  Me is the person standing on the bridge.  Me is the real person, not the pretend.