Why do people have to wear a mask? Have you ever wondered why you wear this mask? Let me tell you, your first mask wasn’t your decision to start with (as usual); your first mask was handed to you by your parents, just as you do with your children nowadays. How could your parents acknowledge having birthed the brat you are? They don’t have the guts, so they brief you before going anywhere. Or did you think briefing happens only in the office before starting the day? 

No, my love, while your mother was lacing your shoes, wasn’t she saying:

“I want you to sit near me at the wedding, and don’t act stupid. And should anyone ask how you broke your arm, I don’t want you to say you fought in school with Billy and Raven—you fell from the chair.” 

“OK.” 
“OK, Mom.”
What happened to your arm? “I fell from the chair.” 
Oh, that’s mama’s good boy.

Here you were: instead of showing your fighter spirit, you were given a victim-of-misfortune mask to wear. And make no mistake, the mask didn’t benefit you; it benefited the image of your parents not having a “fighter” or “troublesome” kid. Your first masks were never for you—they were for the benefit of the elders asking you to wear one.

And that’s how the lesson etched itself in your blood: truth costs, lies protect. Truth gets you a scolding, lies get you a pat on the head. Truth makes you the problem, lies make you the “good boy.” Don’t underestimate how fast a child understands this. By the second or third time, you already knew which version of yourself gets fed, gets hugged, gets accepted. Which version gets abandoned. That was your first quiet transaction with life: sell yourself, get love. Be yourself, lose it. A deal sealed before you even lost your baby teeth.

We’re taking the origin spaceship and going to a newly discovered planet in our solar system named True-Piter. The main characteristic of True-Piter is that the atmosphere there doesn’t allow lies or masks.

Let’s say we are Truepiterians. What would you have done if little you-you had told you, “I fought in school and broke my arm”? Picture it and live it. What would you do at a family dinner if your cousin’s son tells you he fought in school and broke his arm? Beat him? Scold him? Little bro fought and maybe lost, and you’d add to it? No. You’d clap him on the back, grin, maybe say: “Next time, you’re going to break some arms.” You’d celebrate the courage, maybe give him advice, maybe tell your own story—you’d sympathize.

Because on True-Piter, truth doesn’t cost. Truth doesn’t shame. Truth is currency. Imagine that dinner table—no one adjusting their tone, no one rehearsing lies before they open their mouths. Imagine children speaking raw, men admitting fear, women confessing what they actually want, everyone naked without these masks. Nobody flinching, nobody punished for it. You’d feel lighter just breathing in that atmosphere.

Now, back here on Earth. What did mommy’s little mask generate from people asking about the broken arm? The same: sympathy.

Wearing a mask generated sympathy. Being yourself generated sympathy… You see how foolish you are now. And what happen if you got a troublesome kid, what’s the problem? Isn’t that your genes? Your own DNA? 

You are not the only one having faeces in your belly- everyone carry their own load of shit in their belly, my friend. Don’t ever forget this!

That’s how the masquerade began.

Parents said: “Be a good boy, don’t cry too loud.”
School said: “Don’t question outside the syllabus.”
Society said: “Don’t fall behind. Don’t be weird.”
Work said: “Be professional, even if you’re dying inside.”
And before you knew it, you forgot the shape of your own face.

Look around: the whole planet is a masquerade ball. The businessman in a polished suit who sobs in the shower. The influencer posting sunsets while hiding panic attacks. The couple smiling in family portraits while sleeping in separate beds. Everyone has their costume. Some wear it light, like a veil. Some wear it so heavy they suffocate. And some—maybe like you—know they’re choking but are too terrified to rip it off. Because the mask keeps you safe. It gets applause. It avoids judgment.

But the price? The price is your life. The mask eats your authenticity. It devours decades. One day, you’ll wake up old, surrounded by people who loved the performance but never once met the actor. Worst of all—you’ll have swallowed the lie yourself. You’ll look in the mirror and believe the costume is your skin. It’s theatre. And you’ve been acting so long you don’t even know who the hell you are anymore.

What terrifies people most isn’t death. It isn’t loneliness. It’s exposure—fear of being exposed. Fear of being judged. Fear of being seen naked—not without clothes, but without the mask. So, you keep polishing the image. You keep adding filters. You keep playing the role. You keep updating your social media with captions that hide your bleeding soul.

And you convince yourself: “If they believe I’m okay, maybe I’ll believe it too.”

But the mask doesn’t protect you. It strangles you.

The moment the mask slips and the raw, imperfect, unpolished face shows—that’s why people go to war to protect it. They’ll drown in debt for appearances. Stay chained to dead marriages for the family photo. Burn out in jobs they hate just to be called “successful.” Tell me, isn’t that insanity? A life spent keeping an illusion alive?

And here’s the cruel twist: nobody wins this game. While you’re busy performing for them, they’re performing for you. A theatre of shadows, clapping at each other’s masks, envying each other’s illusions—while none of you live your own damn life. Let me ask you: who are you really competing with? Your neighbor with the shiny car? That colleague who got promoted? That influencer who seems to have the “perfect” life? We are trapped by what people think of us, like a hamster running endlessly in a neon-lit wheel, smiling for the camera but going nowhere.

And for what? To appear successful? To appear happy? To appear complete?

Do you see the problem? You’re chasing appearances. And appearances are like shadows—you can run after them your whole life, but you’ll never catch them. It’s a game designed to make you lose. Because even if you win today, tomorrow someone will outshine you. And the cycle restarts.

You die thirsty, running after mirages. We show the world a version of ourselves, like a TikTok filter on repeat — shiny, flawless, but beneath it, acne scars, bad moods, and unread messages pile up. We chase likes and approval like swiping through an endless carousel of trending videos — always one more scroll away from a hit, never truly satisfied.

Some people think masks are harmless. They’ll say, “It’s just social etiquette. It keeps the peace.” They’ll dress it up with words like “diplomacy” and “professionalism.” But strip it down, and it’s all the same: cowardice. Self-erasure. A deal with the devil where you trade your face for approval. Do it long enough, and the trade is permanent.

I once tried to convince myself that masks are sometimes good, sometimes even necessary. That maybe, just maybe, there are situations where it’s better to keep the peace, to fake a smile, to hide the raw. You see? That’s the trap. Trying to play both sides. But let me tell you—this is the most dangerous danger of them all. Because when you play both sides, you end up with no side. And when you have no side, you have no spine, no position, no identity. What kind of man is that? Not even worthy of being called an enemy. He is not the dick, not the pussy—he is the condom in between. Disposable. Hollow. Plastic. Without a soul of his own.

But when I dug deeper, when I stripped away all my self-justifications, I found this: in no case—absolutely no case—is wearing a mask good. Not one.

You’ll argue, of course. You’ll say, “But some people are too deranged, too unstable. For them, it’s better to wear a mask, fake a smile, so they can function in society.” Really? Wait—read what you just said.

Mr. Patrick is such a deranged man that the only way he can appear “normal” is by strapping on a fake smile, pretending yoga makes him calm, and teaching third grade where my little girl Leslie sits in his class. And we’re supposed to believe that as long as Patrick keeps wearing that mask—smiling, stretching, chanting mantras—Leslie is safe? Read that again. No, don’t just read it—read it ten times until it burns.

Tell me—where, or when, is a mask ever good? Ever needed? If someone is deranged, why the hell do you insist on dragging him into society with a plastic smile pasted on his face? There are treatments, there are places, there are padded rooms and locked doors. But no—you bring him to the dinner table and tell everyone, “Oh, he’s just shy, he’s just working on himself.” Working on himself? He’s gnawing at the furniture inside, and you’re teaching him how to cross his legs politely.

That’s the trick, isn’t it? Some rich sociopath notices his kid is a full-blown psychopath. Instead of facing it, he calls it “special,” and then trains him how to wear a mask. The boy learns the lines: shake hands, smile wide, say “I’m doing fine, thank you.” A beast in a bow tie. And these same people are the ones who preach to you: “Masks are sometimes needed.” Needed for what? So their monster can stand in the sunlight again and pretend he’s one of us?

And don’t think it’s rare. No. Once the elites make an exception, it becomes your new normal. One big name has a kid who loves eating soil, so what happens? Suddenly, there are articles and Instagram posts about “the hidden health benefits of eating soil.” They’ll package it, sell it, brand it as holistic wellness—just so their brat doesn’t look like an outcast. And you—you with your desperate need to belong—you swallow it, like good little sheep. And the mask slips from their face right onto yours.

Here’s the truth, stripped bare: in no case, in no fucking case, is a mask good. Not for you. Not for your soul. Even if it brings “peace” to people around you, even if it calms the room, even if society applauds your act—it doesn’t matter. Because you, the mask-wearer, will always feel hollow. Always drained. Always fake. It’s like trying to breathe with clingfilm over your mouth. The crowd may cheer, but behind the mask, you’re suffocating.

And yet, people love their masks. Some polish them like trophies. The “responsible parent” mask. The “perfect couple” mask. The “ambitious professional” mask. Each one more suffocating than the last. They post their highlights, crop out their truth, smile on command, and then collapse in private, wondering why life feels so empty. It’s empty because you’re not living—you’re rehearsing. Every day, a rehearsal for a performance that nobody even remembers.

The cruelest prisons don’t have locks or guards. They don’t even have walls. They have chandeliers. They have soft carpets. They let you look out at the sky, but you can’t fly. It looks like freedom from the outside. It feels like slavery on the inside. And the irony? You built the cage yourself. Piece by piece. Every time you lied about being okay. Every time you smiled for a photo you didn’t feel. Every time you bought something just to prove something.

The cage isn’t forced on you—it’s decorated by you.

The worst isn’t that others believe the illusion—it’s that eventually, you do too. When you wear the mask so long that it rewires you. You no longer just act the role—you become it. The mask hardens. You start thinking the mask is you. You forget what your real laughter sounds like, what you actually like doing, what you actually think when nobody’s watching. And when you try to take it off, panic sets in. You fear nobody will love the real you. Nobody will respect the real you. Nobody will even recognize the real you.

So, you put the mask back on. Smile for the camera. Pretend again. And the door of the cage slams shut.

Ask a masked man, “What do you really want from life?” and watch him stutter. Because he doesn’t know. He only knows what the mask was taught to say. “Success.” “Respect.” “Security.” Empty words passed down like hand-me-downs, stitched into his face until he believes them.

And that’s why the world feels fake. Because it is. Billions of people acting out scripts, pretending, clapping for each other’s illusions. A masquerade ball so convincing that even the dancers forget it’s a dance.

But you feel it, don’t you? That exhaustion that no sleep fixes. That constant low-grade suffocation. That’s not your job draining you. It’s not the kids, not the bills, not even your health. It’s the act. It’s carrying the mask every waking second. That’s why you binge shows, drink, scroll for hours. Because for a few moments, you drop the performance. But morning comes. Curtain rises. And the mask goes back on.

Do you know what’s worse than pain? Pain with no witness.

You could be in a crowd, adored, respected, envied—and still be utterly alone. Because the moment you feel like screaming the truth, your throat closes. You can’t speak. You don’t want to ruin the act.

So, you stay silent. You laugh when you want to cry. You nod when you want to scream. You shake hands while your soul is collapsing.

And the people around you? They don’t even notice. They’re too busy maintaining their own golden cages.

Here’s the part no one tells you: appearances are expensive. They cost you money, time, energy, and—most of all—peace.

That designer bag? It isn’t just leather—it’s a receipt that chains you. That car? It isn’t just metal—it’s a monthly payment that suffocates you. That fake smile? It isn’t just a pose—it’s a mask that eats your soul.

You don’t own appearances. Appearances own you.

And what do you get in return? Applause. A moment of admiration. A few likes. Maybe a jealous look from someone else in their cage.

And that’s it. That’s all. That’s the deal.

But here’s the secret—sometimes, in the dead of night, when the phone is off and the room is quiet, the mask slips.

For a second, you glimpse your reflection and see a stranger staring back. And the whisper comes: “This isn’t me.”

That’s the crack in the cage. That’s the moment when the illusion weakens. But most people cover the crack with more paint, more filters, more distractions. Because breaking the cage feels terrifying. Because truth feels heavier than lies. So, they go back to sleep. Back to scrolling. Back to decorating the prison.

And here’s the part that makes your hands shake: the only way out is to take it off. There’s only one way out—and it’s not pretty. It’s not gentle. It’s brutal honesty.

To stand in front of yourself and admit: “This cage is not me.” To shatter the illusion, even if everyone else calls you crazy. To choose being real over being admired.

Because admiration feeds your ego, but truth feeds your soul. And in the end, only the soul lasts.

The mask will rot. The cage will collapse. The applause will fade. But the real you—that buried self—that’s the only thing worth saving.

Rip it off. Stand naked before yourself and whisper: “This is me. Unfiltered. Unimpressive. Imperfect. But real.” At first, it feels like dying. You’ll lose fans. Lose applause. People will whisper. Some will leave. But for the first time in years—you will breathe.

And the ones who stay? Those are your people. The ones who never loved the mask to begin with. The ones who see your scars and don’t flinch. That’s freedom. That’s living.

Aren’t you tired? Tired of the suffocating costume? Tired of wasting your life in a theatre nobody wins? Then take it off. Not tomorrow. Not when it’s safe. Now. Rip it off, even if your voice cracks, even if people laugh.

Let me ask you: are you free, or are you just decorating your cage?

Are you living, or are you performing?

Do you have a soul, or just a costume?

And when the final curtain falls—and it will—what do you think will matter more? The mask they admired? Or the face you abandoned?

Because if you don’t stop playing, you will die admired, envied, applauded—and utterly unknown. And that, my friend, is the worst kind of death.

Next Week : Chapter 4 : Jerk-Off / Fuck-Off