For years, wearing the same mask makes it almost an integral part of yourself; an identity that you contrive on your own, for yourself.

Like a shade beneath the mango tree to evade the fierce sun of mid-June, the mask feels salubrious. You start to seek comfort there, ignoring everything else that lies within.

A mistake of yours or perhaps a try to turn into something bigger, the reason is unknown but one thing is for sure; you try to delve deeper into this aspect of yours, make it permanent. It is the loss of yourself.

You feel the loss yet you ignore but you forget that the mask can not last forever, it is ephemeral and soon it falls. Your rage is the one that omits it from you, making you realise your identity.

Like some mockery of fate, you can't escape it. It comes around no matter how much you try and once the mask falls off, the first thing that one sees is rage.

The sheer red, the demon you have been trying to conceal, forget and obliterate. Your worst fear comes out to be true but you care least, your rage is then what controls your every action and every word uttered by your lips.

It feels like you have taken some elixir, a new feeling that you seem to get obsessed with as soon as you taste even a drop of it. The lack of control in your measured steps starts to feel liberating for your chained demons.

There is apathy for everything around. Any encounter starts to feel useless, only your presence, the melody of your beating heart and your fury manage to conserve their significance.

The result of this remains unknown but the joy in your wrath can not be ignored. The relief of not owning a part that is not yours is undeniable and for once, just for a moment, you celebrate the fall of the mask before the reality stike.