I hate you.

Yes, you, you vile white mask. I've hated you since I first laid eyes on you. You convince me that I'm weak; that I need you; that I am imperfect without you.

You sicken me.

I hold you in my hands. If they bled, it would be a mercy. You, my hideous mask, have destroyed all things. How, you ask so innocently? You deceptive little anathema! I despise you, you liar! You killed my core; you and your sweetly smooth, too perfect, mocking surface have numbed my heart, you've killed my soul! My soul. Yes, you murderer, my soul. I want it back! I want my heart you tore out and devoured whole, in your civilized apathy, back! You've destroyed the life in me. I'm a soulless corpse, and each day is like an empty drudgery; it's neither toilsome nor easy, and neither is it empty or fulfilling. Each day is nothing, absolutely nothing and hopelessly pointless! You—you have DESTROYED my hope, my life, my love, and you DARE to mock me with your false perfection!

I can smash you in pieces against the wall. I hate you beyond all things I have ever hated in my life. I loathe you, despise you—if only I could find a word strong enough to describe this I feel, this hate beyond all hates! You are a damnable creature, you coward; you took advantage of me when I was weak, and became for me an addiction, an obsession, a need.

I don't need you!... yet, if I destroy you, won't the world see my ghastly face? Will it not recoil in horror, shudder, and scorn me again? Will I once again be alone? Won't my heart break a thousand times once more? Oh—

No, I will not let you convince me again! I hate you—I do not need you! Let the world mock me! Let the world hate me and despise me, reject me, betray me, and deny me! I deny them!

Yet... no, I cannot hate the world. I cannot deny the world. I am a man; weak, yes. All men are. This is why they deny me. They're all weak. They all are wearing masks. Those poor fools are deceived by your ghostly frames, your deceptively lovely forms. Oh, you, you hideous beast, you mask. What is the point of this masquerade we men uphold? This frivolous little vanity play, this pointless little show. Who are we performing for? No one applauds at the end of each player's performance; we are, then, I suppose, performing for nothing. All this hopeless vanity, day after day, shortens the burning candle of our lives, and then in an instant, it is gone.

There must be something else beyond this mass confusion, this anarchic chaos of this masquerade. What are masks but disguises of the true form? If life is a masquerade, there must be a true form behind all the masks we wear. Behind you, you loathsome costume, you vanity encourager.

Your work is built on a system of lies, that I see now are crashing down on top of you. You are a mask; you are indifferent and feel nothing. You consume and destroy and supply without preference. You are surely the most loathsome being to walk this planet, and claim yourself king.

I'll love to see you crash before my eyes, and shatter in a million pieces on the floor; how often you had seen me crash and shatter in that same manner. I am a different man; not in deed, word, or thought, but in this action, I'll be changed. I am still vain, still afraid, still weak; but I'll be free. Yes. This masquerade is ended.