A Mask for My Mask

At one time in my life, my diet used to consist of items that would make ordinary everyday gatherings appear to be Halloween Parties; seeing the inner-costumes, per say. During actual costume parties, and in a similar mental disposition, I would think, "Boy, isn't it nice that everyone is playing along with my little journey tonight."

These days, I find it a bit awkward to go from door to door begging for free candy, and I have little interest in suiting up for the night in anything other than the deluded array of characters that my ego-supported persona effervesces on a regular basis, albeit dressed in perceptibly plain-clothes attire, codified by the words I use, and beliefs that I defend.

Small children look incredibly cute in Halloween costumes.  

Adults? Need we wear our psychosis, shadow self, and hidden desires in such a masquerade?  I believe a few minutes of conversation will have that nailed down, without the aid of sexy this-and-that, horrific latex, or manhandled and painted cardboard that can no longer be recycled.

Perhaps this is my "Bah Humbug" to Halloween?  A Grinch-like envious disdain for all those adorable children successfully panning for delicious treats that I periodically, and rather unsuccessfully, renounce?  What visions of Halloweens past, present, and future will visit me tonight and set right the error of my ways?  The ghosts are all out getting booed for unoriginal costume design.

Tomorrow ushers in the sunset of a dark era, a turning in the ancients' bifurcated year.

An armchair history of Samhain

Despite my strong criticism, I support those who dress tonight; who, during this festive season have materialized their year-long office daydreams into a prize-winning costume.  People will also, such as many before them, dig deep into their heroic capacity for ingesting various chemical aides, a fantastical synchronization that takes advantage of an unusual amount of audience participation, whether the audience knows it or not.

Much more than this, I commend the children for taking over control of sweet and delicious White Gold, if only for a small time.

For me, I will reflect on the masks and costumes that I wear every day, which, for better of worse, are not as easy to pull off, return, or store away on November 1st.  No, these masks are like the spoof ending of Scooby-Doo, when the villan is revealed further and further still, mask after mask, like a set of Russian dolls.

What will I be left with from such an exploration?  Finer and finer bits of who I think I am, quickly setting a precedent that the only thing to know for real, is rapidly proven in each moment as the most intangible; that is who, indeed, is beneath this costume after all?