An array of masks is all I see. A circus with beasts, monsters, ventriloquists, tamers, dancers, and magicians. The point is to impress, divert attention from what is real, create and illusion; the point is to be anything but yourself.
The audience is wearing their 'spectator' masks. That too is a form of escape. I feel like one as well, watching a dystopian story unfold before my eyes. It's one of those narratives where the protagonists are unaware of the impending doom. Their world is destroyed, their lives wasted. A time machine arrives. It takes them back. It doesn't matter. They repeat the same mistakes, make the same choices, every single fucking time.
They're stuck in an endless loop of misery and un-lived lives. Yet they wonder what went wrong (from time to time). Or do they? When are those moments most lucid? What causes the doubts to surface and what are the mechanisms that bury them again so deep inside a cavern of regrets, wishes, and unfulfilled images?
Our plight is now the temporary value we attribute to everything and everyone. Regardless of our expiry date, we have all become expendable. Replaceable. Reimagined. Recreated. For if we all wear masks, no one is actually real.