And then it hit me, like thousands of hammers falling from the forgiving heavens, tearing through the flakey paper disguise that I had so carefully covered myself with and had been building up all these years, with the ease of a knife through room-temperature butter.

My world began to crumble around me, exposing the truths behind these eyes, and leaving only a few sharp, hardened shards of what I used to be.

Was it just another phase, another spur of the moment relevation, only to be forgotten, or even regretted? Would I go back to my old, hidden self, or would this be a turning point in my life? Would I remember this very moment in my existence fondly, or with utter loathing? Most importantly, will things ever fall back into place, or will they just drift through the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years that are and have been my detailed story of breath?

And my friends? They cannot guide me. None of them have reached this point of questioning. Of self confusion. I cannot rely on them to pick me up, and reconstruct the rubble into something beautiful, and comprehendible. Because they will do just that. It will be beautiful in their minds-eye, and only they will understand, where as I will be left wearing a label that I will and would never be able to grasp firmly enough to fathom.

What is left, having been disclosed beneath my false 'surface', is everything that I truly am. I only wish that I could find someone to wipe away my tears of regret, and tell me that it's ok, because they too have hidden similar things to what I had tried to conceal. Then they would tear away their curtain, and proudly display to me, and only me, everything that is them, exposing, but far more readily and happily exposing. I will smile, because there would be a comforting similarity, an amazingly reconizable trait to what they hath shown me and what I stand next to shamefully. What they had shown me is only brighter, and radiates wonder, and pride.

And then I close my eyes, and see a maze. It could be the cliched maze of life, within which I will have millions of decisions, and choices, and determined only by the path I choose will I come to the end, whether it be terrible or greatly beautiful, or a great and terrible beauty all in itself. Will our choices determine where our soul rests when we leave this earth for something more divine? Or do we all go to the same place, and determine whether it is wonderful or revolting based on life experience?

And is there really such thing as a dead end in the maze of life? It seems that since one thing always leads to another, and since when one door closes another opens, no one would ever find themselves in the position to have to go back, and take back whatever option they chose.

The maze will show me two choices, each of which will completely establish whether I go on like this, whether this relevation will only be a short-term phase, or whether this realization will impact me for the rest of my life. It seems like an easy decision to you, go with the one that will keep you socially acceptable, you say. But who are you to determine what makes me acceptable? Like I stated, you would label me and throw me out to pasture again, excited to have me in the neat little box again, safe and somewhat sound, or so you think. For me it is a choice between safety, being secure inside the box, protected and taking refuge underneath your self-proclaimed omnipotence over me, or throwing myself infront of the world, and tearing off the label that you so hastily plastered across my chest.

Who is the person that showed themselves to me? Indifference was her motto, or atleast appathy shown to petty issues, such as superficiality, but great care given to the ones she loved.

Will I ever live up to her?

A/N: Terribly choppy, without structure, angry, confusing and random. This was written out of an anger and confusion, after I had a sort of relevation. It is almost a rant towards a former friend. I'm glad to say that I did indeed change with this relevation, yet I'm still trying to firgure out whether it was for the better or the worse. This piece was one of the first works that made me start to write again.