Whether an extrovert, an introvert or an ambivert, the one universally common trait among all of them are their dual personalities. Don’t get me wrong, I am not scrutinizing anyone here for their intentional evilness, instead, i am emphasizing on the extent we humans have segmented ourselves into two halves i.e. the one we want to present to the world while the other part which we desire to be kept hidden. The latter is most likely our authentic self while the former comes out with the immense pressure to appear a certain way in our community.
With deep observance of the outer world as well as some self-examination over the years, the one thing which I find common in all humans is the ability to master the art of impression management. We only know others the way they want to show themselves, similarly others know us to the extent we are willing to show ourselves to them. In the continuous process of quasi-showing and hiding, somewhere a lot of stories go untold. The stories of sweat, tears, pain, struggle, loneliness, countless dark nights and extremely difficult mornings, the stories which have shaped us, our reality.
They are the unpublished stories of human life because the world demands to only see SMILING faces of robot like humans who are expected to only smile no matter how shattered they are inside, and all they need is to sit and vent. But oops! they are not allowed to make themselves feel better because a sobbing face is equal to a week heart.
“I am okay” ,” Nah, I’m not those crying types” ,”I don’t care” such answers have become quite common when one is asked about their well-being. I fail to comprehend why all of us have started feeling cool about not caring. If the heart aches, what is so wrong in admitting that? If we need to sit back and just breathe in, why is that considered to be pathological whereas sitting in front of the laptop typing like a machine while dying inside is absolutely normal? Why do we feel conscious publishing our unpublished stories?
Maybe the fear of being criticized, mocked or a simple prejudice that our stories may seem trivial to others stop us from publishing them to the world. But I’ll wait for the day when we all share our best- kept- secret-stories and show our real selves to each other, at least something like depression will not take precious lives then maybe.
I’ll wait for the day when i will publish my unpublished stories because they speak volumes about my life, my existence and my personality which the published ones miserable fail to do.
And lastly, I’ll wait for the day when the world will be a happier place with our visible tears than what it is today with our fake smiles.