Have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror and wondered what you are ? A son, a sister, a mother, an uncle, a nephew, a friend, a spouse, a rival, a teacher... The list could go on for-ever and keep on growing for-ever. Are these all roles that we play or masks that we wear. The mask of a father, a daughter, a wife, a friend; or is it something more. Is this the purpose for our existence? To put on mask after mask until each and every one of those masks leaves an impression on our face, becomes a part of who we are.
Shakesphere said that -
Even he understood that man had to change roles. Put on a new mask to become something new, something different. Once in your life, just once, stand in front of a mirror and remove those masks. One at a time. Look at yourself for what you are. If you do that you will learn that you are nothing. You are an identity made by the people who are around you, who know you, who love you and who care about you.All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Man after all, is nothing without his masks.