WRITING HOMEWORK I CRI. THIS DOESNT EVEN FIT THE THEME LIKE TF

ITS HORRIBLE BECAUSE I HAD TO CUT THIS DOWN BECAUSE OF THE WORD LIMIT ;-;

• • •

I would say that a "human" isn't exactly what most think.

For starters, what's the dictionary definition of a human?

Scientifically, being one of these creatures means that I am blessed with an adept mind and the ability to form complex structures and methods of thinking, unlike most animals who can only interpret simple commands.

What, however, makes us so deserving?

Maybe we had something that made us good at the very beginning. Something that we could claim that we had that others didn't.

Was it our personality, then?

Aren't we all the same now—desperate and slowly falling into this pit of endless, savage addiction of social media that this modern era has brought with it?

It isn't just this problem of blasted apps like Instagram and Tumblr—these famous names that bring groans to the older generations and an illusion of bliss to the younger ones. Another problem has been planted—like a bad, evil seed—at the back of each of our minds, rooted firmly in the depths of society—and it is one that will most likely be impossible to completely weed.

Hm? Why are you listening to me—why are you reading my words? To be honest, I don't really know. A lot of people like to read, but then again, I've always been a compulsive liar. I'm good at deceiving; good at coating the world's imperfections with my pretty phrases.

When it comes to the truth, though, I'm equally sharp; equally dangerous—if I don't like you, I'll unveil this ugly reality to you in the most painful, heart-breaking way.

After all, a good writer's able to do both.

But for now, I guess I can't stop you if you're already here. I'm about to tell you a little story—I'd appreciate it if you'd continue.

• • •

I'd like to start with the words "Once upon a time" to make this story a happy one, to fool everyone—myself included—that this is going to end with a "happily ever after", but these cliched phrases are for young children and I'd like to grow up.

The first mask that I made—metaphorical, of course, I'm no artist—was when I was five. I don't know why, but the ornament just came naturally—one tailor-made for me.

As a little kid, I learnt three lies.

The first lie I learnt: I love you.

Parents often used this phrase to placate their children when they cried—and I'd felt it plenty of times.

Believe it or not, I used to cry a lot. My mother would hold me close, cradling my body close to hers as she repeated these three words in my ear in a hushed whisper.

I soon grew tired of hearing this sentence—not because I was an insolent child, but because I knew that "I love you" had become a lie, a meaningless, distant phrase flung out in the hopes of fixing things, when my mother had morphed, screaming at me until her voice broke and she slapped me harshly across the face.

Later on, I learnt that parents would do this occasionally; only because their child had made a mistake, but a minute or two of skimming over the topic wouldn't be able to erase the firm judgement I'd formed in my youthful mind.

How foolish I'd been to even believe in these words from the start.

And soon, I'd become the one who had to say it.

Whenever something just went wrong, she would take the red liquid out of the closet and drink it until it was a wonder that her lungs didn't burst.

I would patiently endure the first few blows, but once it got out of hand, fear would propel me to scream—"Stop! I love you! Stop!"

And that's when I learnt that this deceptive phrase could be used as a shield.

-

The second lie: smile.

This pretty word—and the action itself—was like magic. Something unbelievable happened when you smiled.

The kids treated me nicer. The teachers—and adults in general—were more forgiving towards my mistakes. My parents became more tolerant.

It also made others happier, erasing the horrible colour of worry from their previously untainted faces. One false smile turned into a line of faked emotions.

I was playing baseball with the brother I never had and got bruised. I fell down the stairs that never existed. No one questioned a happy boy.

The smile hurt my cheeks, but it seemed to do more good than harm, so I let it stay put.

I couldn't scream.

I couldn't cry.

But that was OK. I fit in. I belonged. With a smile, you can be friends with anyone.

No one cares if the smile is real or not.

-

The third lie I learnt: "It'll be OK."

When I was a teenager, I started carelessly using social media—felt that it was a necessity to fit in because that was what all my peers were doing.

And, because I saw through the facade of social media and recognised the beauty of such a lie, I got addicted by accident.

It was so easy to lie on the internet. With a few cheerful emojis and selective posts about crafted stories, you could craft whatever life you so desired. I made friends—distant ones, of course, our relationship always sort of porous.

I'd learnt the phrase from the adults. That was their answer when something went wrong. It was pretty sickening, the way they tossed these toxic words around, chanting it as if it was their motto.

Maybe it wasn't a magical shield like "I love you" or a soothing reminder like smiling.

But it could make others happier, much happier.

I guess the adults influenced me. Depression was a common topic floating around the various platforms.

I, being the master of languages that I was, was able to make up encouraging replies, and somehow, they always ended with the phrase it'll be OK.

• • •

Why, you may ask, am I over-complicating things? Why am I making all this to be one huge lie?

What drove me do want to understand this meaning-making of the world?

Let me paint you an answer—no, an analogy.

For example, let's say that the world is a cake and that I have been tasked to ice it. The icing are the lies, and I've accidentally smeared a huge blob of icing on the surface.

And as I work on this canvas—after all, icing can be crafted to anyone's desires, I'm desperate, drifting in and out as the icing thickens and thins. I slather on more and more layers (one mask, two masks) in an attempt to hide the horror that I have just discovered.

To others, icing was sweet and smooth—something beautiful. It's because people are blissfully ignorant; they can't tell lies from truth. Icing gives off the impression of something that isn't there.

To me, however, this frosting tastes like leather, no different from the bile rising in my throat. My lips bleeds with the invisible stains and trails of crimson liquid that I have made up myself.

Cake.

Ha.

It rhymes with fake.