Everyone Wears A Mask Quotes

There are boys you look at and want to touch with your mouth, and there are boys you look at and want to wear one of those surgical masks everyone in China had during bird flu. There are a lot more bird-flu boys at large.

Everyone wears metaphorical masks during their lives. We all have different faces we show to work colleagues, or friends, or family. Sometimes we wear so many masks, we forget who we are underneath it all, but you have to find the courage to drop all the bullshit and revel your true self.

Masks reveal the shape of your soul and the state of the world and, in today’s world, everyone wears a mask.

Everyone wears masks. They come in all different shapes and sizes. The only problem with trying one on - is that it fits. How easily we fall into the trap that we don't have to be who we really are. How easily we convince ourselves that we need to cover up what we were born to be. It's a tragedy - that fear keeps us from our destiny. It's hell - when the person you were created to be - is covered up by some cheap imposter.

One of the tragedies of North Korea is that everyone wears a mask, which they let slip at their peril.

We wear different masks and hide our reality from everyone, including ourselves. Our assumed identities becomes our whole lives, and we start to believe them—even more than others do.

Cruelty is easy, and it breeds only misery. Kindness is harder, and you have to be brave to give it. To be cruel, you can stay closed off from everyone, wear a mask, but to be kind, in essence, to show love, you have to make yourself vulnerable, show your true self to someone and open yourself up to rejection.

But, in this world, life is a masquerade. Everyone wears masks.

the only night that people don't look horrible is halloween because everyone wears a clear mask that hides their two faces!

What, in all the world, could I do to earn my living and still live as myself, as I knew myself to be. Temporary masks, I knew, had their place; everyone was wearing them, they were the human rage; but not masks cemented in place until the wearer could not breathe and was eventually suffocated.

I try to imagine keeping something like that a secret for my whole life. It would be like always wearing a mask over your face, which everyone believed was the real you. You would be the only person who knew it wasn't--and who knew that you could never take it off.

In order to protect our emotional wounds, and because of our fear of being hurt, humans create something very sophisticated in the mind: a big denial system. In that denial system we become the perfect liars. We lie so perfectly that we lie to ourselves and we even believe our own lies. We don’t notice we are lying, and sometimes even when we know we are lying, we justify the lie and excuse the lie to protect ourselves from the pain of our wounds. The denial system is like a wall of fog in front of our eyes that blinds us from seeing the truth. We wear a social mask because it’s too painful to see ourselves or to let others see us as we really are. And the denial system lets us pretend that everyone believes what we want them to believe about us. We put up these barriers for protection, to keep other people away,

In a world where everyone wears a mask, it’s a privilege to see a soul.

Everyone wears masks.They come in all different shapes and sizes.The only problem with trying one on is that it fits. How easily we fall into the trap that we don’t have to be who we really are.How easily we convince ourselves that we need to cover up what we were born to be.It’s a tragedy that fear keeps us from our destiny.It’s hell when the person you were created to be is covered up by some cheap imposter

Life as it proceeds reveals, cooly and dispassionately, what lies behind the mask that each man wears. It would seem that everyone possesses several faces. Some people use only one all the time, and it then, naturally, becomes soiled and wrinkled. These are the thrifty sort. Others look after their masks in the hope of passing them on to their descendants. Others again are constantly changing their faces. But all of them, when they reach old age, realise one day that the mask they are wearing is their last and that it will soon be worn out, and then, from behind the last mask, the real face appears.

What we want is for everyone to just wear a mask. But then there are people who say that requiring a mask is a gross infringement of their bodily rights. I don’t know how to make it any more clear: you don’t have any bodily rights when you’re dead.

I imagine everyone wears layered masks, and parades around a variety or panoply of false selves depending on the occasion.

I love Halloween because all the time, everyone wears masks. But one night a year, they do it openly. The dark and forbidden things they wish to be but deny themselves, on Halloween they don’t. On Halloween, they embrace it, all of it. The hidden parts of the world are exposed, if only for one night. And those things that are truly dark are a little less alone.

The life that I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and that in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place and time my touch will be felt. Our lives are linked together. No man is an island. But there is another truth, the sister of this one, and it is that every man is an island. It is a truth that often the tolling of a silence reveals even more vividly than the tolling of a bell. We sit in silence with one another, each of us more or less reluctant to speak, for fear that if he does, he may sound life a fool. And beneath that there is of course the deeper fear, which is really a fear of the self rather than of the other, that maybe truth of it is that indeed he is a fool. The fear that the self that he reveals by speaking may be a self that the others will reject just as in a way he has himself rejected it. So either we do not speak, or we speak not to reveal who we are but to conceal who we are, because words can be used either way of course. Instead of showing ourselves as we truly are, we show ourselves as we believe others want us to be. We wear masks, and with practice we do it better and better, and they serve us well –except that it gets very lonely inside the mask, because inside the mask that each of us wears there is a person who both longs to be known and fears to be known. In this sense every man is an island separated from every other man by fathoms of distrust and duplicity. Part of what it means to be is to be you and not me, between us the sea that we can never entirely cross even when we would. “My brethren are wholly estranged from me,” Job cries out. “I have become an alien in their eyes.” The paradox is that part of what binds us closest together as human beings and makes it true that no man is an island is the knowledge that in another way every man is an island. Because to know this is to know that not only deep in you is there a self that longs about all to be known and accepted, but that there is also such a self in me, in everyone else the world over. So when we meet as strangers, when even friends look like strangers, it is good to remember that we need each other greatly you and I, more than much of the time we dare to imagine, more than more of the time we dare to admit. Island calls to island across the silence, and once, in trust, the real words come, a bridge is built and love is done –not sentimental, emotional love, but love that is pontifex, bridge-builder. Love that speak the holy and healing word which is: God be with you, stranger who are no stranger. I wish you well. The islands become an archipelago, a continent, become a kingdom whose name is the Kingdom of God.

On Saturday afternoons I used to go for a walk with my mother. From the dusk of the hallway, we stepped at once into the brightness of the day. The passerby, bathed in melting gold, had their eyes half-closed against the glare, as if they were drenched with honey, upper lips were drawn back, exposing the teeth. Everyone in this golden day wore that grimace of heat–as if the sun had forced his worshippers to wear identical masks of gold. The old and the young, women and children, greeted each other with these masks, painted on their faces with thick gold paint; they smiled at each other's pagan faces–the barbaric smiles of Bacchus.

Everyone wears different masks on a regular basis. Some people simply aren’t aware of it. Also, I like to think of the masks as different versions of the same person. Humans are complex, complicated. We are so much more than just one mask.

Real monsters don’t wear masks, William Grayson III,” I retorted. “They look like everyone else.

But, in this world life is a masquerade. Everyone wears masks.

I love Halloween. The one time of the year when everyone wears a mask, not just me

The gym exposes deficiencies in our bodies’ strength and stamina—and appearance. You can wear all kinds of daytime clothes that hide or minimize aspects of your body that you would like to be less visible to the eye. But in the gym, you cannot hide them. There you and your coach (and unfortunately everyone around you) can see where you bulge where you shouldn’t. It’s an incentive to get to work. And so this metaphor tells us that when life is going along just fine, the flaws in our character can be masked and hidden from others and from ourselves. But when troubles and difficulties hit, we are suddenly in “God’s gymnasium”—we are exposed. Our inner anxieties, our hair-trigger temper, our unrealistic regard of our own talents, our tendency to lie or shade the truth, our lack of self-discipline—all of these things come out.

A man without a mask’ is indeed very rare. One even doubts the possibility of such a man. Everyone in some measure wears a mask, and there are many things we do not put ourselves into fully. In ‘ordinary’ life it seems hardly possible for it to be otherwise. The false self of the schizoid individual differs, however, in certain important respects from the mask worn by the ‘normal’ person, and also from the false front that is characteristically maintained by the hysteric.

How can I recognize reality when everyone around me is wearing masks and playing roles?

I imagine everyone wears layered masks, and parades around a variety or panoply of false selves depending on the occasion. Normal people do that out of their own insecurities and ambitions. Mind-controlled people are hollow because their minds were taken away from them. Their controllers instruct these shells of people about what to do and when. Theirs is institutionalized, manufactured falsity.

I wasn't trying to scare you," he said, staring out at the rain pummeling the roof, "but why wasn't I" "Real monsters don't wear masks, William Grayson III", I retorted. "They look like everyone else.

When I was wearing a hazmat suit and a gas mask to shop in the USA during the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was surprised everyone at the stores I would go to would treat me like a normal customer.

In public, one always wears a social mask, a presentation to the world. Even when you’re alone and look in a mirror, you’re acting, which is one reason Knight never kept a mirror in his camp. He let go of all artifice; he became no one and everyone.

Money was the blood of civilized society, its currents running through everything and everyone. Where money was insufficient, things withered. People starved, sickened and died, constructions eroded, even ideas perished. Where funds were plentiful, the same things blossomed with new life. And money was, in the end, little more than the product of collective imagination. A slip of paper or a coin had no value beyond that of the material it was fashioned of. It only took on a life of its own when people as a whole collectively agreed that certain papers and coins were worth something. Only then did people bleed and die for it. For a fantasy, a faith given form in hard, concrete numbers. Then again, much of society was built on a series of shared delusions. Clothing was little more than scraps of particular materials with particular geometries, but people clung to the idea of fashion. Style. Good and bad fashion was another belief system, one which all members of a culture were indoctrinated into. Breaking certain conventions didn’t only challenge the aesthetic sensibilities of others, but it challenged their sense of self. It reminded them, subconsciously, of the very pretendings they clung to. Only those with power could stand against society’s tides, flaunt the collective’s ‘safe’ aesthetic. When one had enough power, others couldn’t rise against them and safely say something calculated to reduce their own dissonance and remind the offending party of the unspoken rules. When one had enough power to take a life with a twitch of a finger, a thought, they earned the right to wear skin-tight clothing and call themselves Hero, or Legend. To wear a mask and name themselves something inane like ‘the Cockatoo’ and still take themselves seriously.

For a breath, Iris couldn’t move. And whatever mask he had been wearing for everyone else—the smile and the merry eyes and the flushed cheeks—faded until she saw how exhausted and sad he was. It struck a chord within her, music that she could feel deep in her bones, and she broke their stare first.

Since Sacha watched that TV show where celebrities dress up in costumes with huge masked heads and sing a song, and a panel and an audience try to guess who's behind the mask, it has struck Sacha that actually everyone and everything on TV is like someone wearing a mask. After you've seen it, you can't not see it.

This loss of self was precisely what Knight experienced in the forest. In public, one always wears a social mask, a presentation to the world. Even when you’re alone and look in a mirror, you’re acting, which is one reason Knight never kept a mirror in his camp. He let go of all artifice; he became no one and everyone.

A gasp caught her attention, followed by a rush of whispers that filled the sudden silence that fell over the room. People stopped talking to turn and stare. People stopped dancing. Even the orchestra stopped playing. Curious, Rose turned to see what everyone was staring at with such blatant shock. Oh, dear God. Her eyes had to be deceiving her! But no, she knew who it was she saw standing just inside the ballroom doors, looking as though he owned the place, meeting every gaze with calm, ducal arrogance. It was Grey. And everyone else knew it was him as well, because unlike every other person in that ballroom, the Duke of Ryeton did not wear a mask.

If you inhabit a role too well and too long you start to become that role. You have lost yourself. The man who always wears a mask becomes the mask. There is no longer a real face under the mask, just a ghastly blank where a human soul once was. We live in a Persona World, a world of masks where everyone is faking it. What is more fake than social media?

For all of us, there is an internal bewildering that builds over time when we neglect private communion with God. Who we are and who God is both fade. It is in withdrawal from everything and everyone to be with God that we re-center. It is when we are alone with him that there is least chance for playing games, wearing a mask, hiding our sins, covering our anxieties. It is then that we can most fully open our hearts up to God.

The denial system is like a wall of fog in front of our eyes that blinds us from seeing the truth. We wear a social mask because it’s too painful to see ourselves or to let others see us as we really are. And the denial system lets us pretend that everyone believes what we want them to believe about us. We put up these barriers for protection, to keep other people away, but those barriers also keep us inside, restricting our freedom.

I don’t like stories. I like moments. I like night better than day, moon better than sun, and here-and-now better than any sometime-later. I also like birds, mushrooms, the blues, peacock feathers, black cats, blue-eyed people, heraldry, astrology, criminal stories with lots of blood, and ancient epic poems where human heads can hold conversations with former friends and generally have a great time for years after they’ve been cut off. I like good food and good drink, sitting in a hot bath and lounging in a snowbank, wearing everything I own at once, and having everything I need close at hand. I like speed and that special ache in the pit of the stomach when you accelerate to the point of no return. I like to frighten and to be frightened, to amuse and to confound. I like writing on the walls so that no one can guess who did it, and drawing so that no one can guess what it is. I like doing my writing using a ladder or not using it, with a spray can or squeezing the paint from a tube. I like painting with a brush, with a sponge, and with my fingers. I like drawing the outline first and then filling it in completely, so that there’s no empty space left. I like letters as big as myself, but I like very small ones as well. I like directing those who read them here and there by means of arrows, to other places where I also wrote something, but I also like to leave false trails and false signs. I like to tell fortunes with runes, bones, beans, lentils, and I Ching. Hot climates I like in the books and movies; in real life, rain and wind. Generally rain is what I like most of all. Spring rain, summer rain, autumn rain. Any rain, anytime. I like rereading things I’ve read a hundred times over. I like the sound of the harmonica, provided I’m the one playing it. I like lots of pockets, and clothes so worn that they become a kind of second skin instead of something that can be taken off. I like guardian amulets, but specific ones, so that each is responsible for something separate, not the all-inclusive kind. I like drying nettles and garlic and then adding them to anything and everything. I like covering my fingers with rubber cement and then peeling it off in front of everybody. I like sunglasses. Masks, umbrellas, old carved furniture, copper basins, checkered tablecloths, walnut shells, walnuts themselves, wicker chairs, yellowed postcards, gramophones, beads, the faces on triceratopses, yellow dandelions that are orange in the middle, melting snowmen whose carrot noses have fallen off, secret passages, fire-evacuation-route placards; I like fretting when in line at the doctor’s office, and screaming all of a sudden so that everyone around feels bad, and putting my arm or leg on someone when asleep, and scratching mosquito bites, and predicting the weather, keeping small objects behind my ears, receiving letters, playing solitaire, smoking someone else’s cigarettes, and rummaging in old papers and photographs. I like finding something lost so long ago that I’ve forgotten why I needed it in the first place. I like being really loved and being everyone’s last hope, I like my own hands—they are beautiful, I like driving somewhere in the dark using a flashlight, and turning something into something completely different, gluing and attaching things to each other and then being amazed that it actually worked. I like preparing things both edible and not, mixing drinks, tastes, and scents, curing friends of the hiccups by scaring them. There’s an awful lot of stuff I like.

When I realized he was about to open up the floor for discussion, I folded myself into the chair, trying to make my body smaller, trying to disappear. Will you make me explain this? Will you ask me to tell this all-white class about the masks Black people wear? I was surprised by own reaction. It felt deeply gratifying to have my own experience named, lifted up, discussed, considered worthy of everyone’s attention. And yet, I had no desire to be the Black spokesperson. It felt too risky. I wasn’t sure that my classmates had earned the right to know, to understand, to be given access to such a vulnerable place in my experience. For me, this was more than an educational exercise. This is how we survive.

You know, those single-use masks everyone is wearing in the pandemic are made of plastic too,” my friend Imani Barbarin said to me. Imani is a talented disability advocate who often speaks about the intersection of disability and environmentalism. She pointed out that the acceptable use of plastic is always set according to what a healthy person needs to be healthy (think masks, gloves, plastic prescription bottles, kinesiology tape… even home delivery supplements that individually package your daily vitamins), but when it comes to someone with a disability using plastic, everyone wants to shame them for killing the planet. “You need what you need,” she said to me in a gentle but firm voice. She was right.

A startlingly clear memory jolted through Ronan, as fresh as the moment he'd lived it. It was the day Ronan had first come to Harvard to surprise Adam, back when he still thought he was moving to Cambridge. He'd been so full of anticipation for how the reveal would go and then, in the end, they'd walked right past each other. At the time, Ronan had thought it was because Adam looked so different after his time away. He was dressed differently. He held himself differently. He'd even lost his accent. And he'd assumed it had felt the same to Adam; Ronan had gotten older, lonelier, sharper. But now they were in this strange sea, and neither of them looked anything like the Adam Parrish and Ronan Lynch the other had known. Adam was a collection of thoughts barely masquerading as a human form. Ronan Lynch was raw dark energy, alien and enormous. And yet when Adam's consciousness touched his, Ronan recognized him. It was Adam's footsteps on the stairs. His surprised whoop as he catapulted into the pond they'd dug. The irritation in his voice; the impatience of his kiss; his ruthless, dry sense of humor; his biting pride; his ferocious loyalty. It was all caught up in this essential form that had nothing to do with how his physical body looked. The difference between this reunion and the one at Harvard was that there in Cambridge they had been false. They'd both been wearing masks upon masks, hiding the truth of themselves from everyone, including themselves. Here, there was no way to hide. They were only their thoughts. Only the truth. "Ronan, Ronan, it is you. I did it. I found you. With just a sweetmetal, I found you." Ronan didn't know if Adam had thought it or said it, but it didn't matter. The joy was unmistakable. "Tamquam," said Ronan, and Adam said, "Alter idem." Cicero had written the phrase about Atticus, his dearest friend. Qui est tamquam alter idem. Like a second self. Ronan and Adam could not hug, because they had no real arms, but it didn't matter. Their energy darted and mingled and circled, the brilliant bright of the sweetmetals and the absolute dark of the Lace. They didn't speak, but they didn't have to. Audible words were redundant when their thoughts were tangled together as one. Without any of the clumsiness of language, they shared their euphoria and their lurking fears. They rehashed what they had done to each other and apologized. They showed everything they had done and that had been done to them in the time since they'd last seen each other--the good and the bad, the horrid and the wonderful. Everything had felt so murky for so long, but when they were like this, all that was left was clarity. Again and again they spiraled around and through one another, not Ronan-and-Adam but rather one entity that held both of them. They were happy and sad, angry and forgiven, they were wanted, they were wanted, they were wanted.

As you leave the Grand Canyon and me, I want to [teach] you about success. Success is not attainment of status nor wealth, power or position. These are easy things to obtain. Success is living in harmony with nature, enthusiasm for life, fulfilled relationships, and energy for living. To achieve it you must let go of the ego. Ego is a mask people wear—it is a role we play, like an actor in a play. Ego is always looking to others for approval. It thinks little of itself and is rooted in fear. We need to discover true self to achieve real success and happiness. True self is our spirit, our soul. We have no fear. We look within our self for approval. We understand everyone is the same self, just wearing different costumes.” Corey

Once we realised it was just Jodi’s mum wearing hair rollers and a moisturising face mask everyone stopped screaming, except for Maisie. That’s when Jodi’s mum said, “Oh darling, I’m so sorry. I must look a fright!” But Maisie wouldn’t stop screaming or believe that it was Jodi’s mum even when she rubbed the face mask off. That’s when Jodi said, “Er, Mum, what did you put in that face mask? Your face looks a bit weird.” And it DID look weird. It was red and bumpy and her eyelids were starting to get all bulgy. Then Jodi’s mum said, “Just what the lady on the TV said to put in. It’s a vegetable facemask. Why? Does it smell funny?” And I said that it DID smell a bit but that wasn’t the reason Maisie was screaming. But Jodi’s mum didn’t understand what was going on until Jodi took her over to the mirror. And that’s when we couldn’t hear Maisie screaming any more because Jodi’s mum screamed louder than I have probably ever heard anyone scream

...most folks get locked into some idea of what they think gender is supposed to be about, so they put on gender-performances for each other. They act out who they think they have to be. And most of the time, they end up not knowing the difference between the mask they're wearing and who they really are. Charles, a real man doesn't worry what kind of underwear he's wearing, what color it is, or if there's a little lace on the bottom, because he knows he's not his underwear. It doesn't mean anything. "What you're finding out is that you are not the mask. Because when you can put on one gender-performance, and then take it off and put on another, and then take that one off too, that's when you start to realize how much of what you think is really you is just a performance. And when you can recognize it as a performance, it loses all of its power. That's when you can see the difference clearly between role and real - in yourself and everyone else.

I have outgrown many things. I have outgrown relatives who gladly offer criticism but not support. I have outgrown my need to meet my family's unrealistic expectations of me. I have outgrown girls who wear masks and secretly rejoice at my misfortunes. I have outgrown shrinking myself for boys who are intimidated by my intelligence and outspoken nature. I have outgrown friends who cannot celebrate my accomplishments. I have outgrown people who conveniently disappear whenever life gets a little dark. I have outgrown those who take pleasure in gossiping and spreading negativity. I have outgrown dull, meaningless conversations that feel forced. I have outgrown those who don't take a stand against ignorance and injustice. I have outgrown trying to please everyone. I have outgrown society constantly telling me I'm not beautiful, smart, or worthy enough. I have outgrown trying to fix every little flaw. I have outgrown my tendency to fill my mind with self-doubt and insecurity. I have outgrown trying to find reasons not to love myself. I have outgrown anything and anyone that does not enrich the essence of my soul. I have outgrown many things, and I've never felt freer.

The triumph of the transsexual and of transvestitism casts a strange light, retrospectively, upon the sexual liberation espoused by an earlier generation. It now appears that this liberation - which, according to its own discourse, meant the bursting forth of the body's full erotic force, a process especially favorable to the principles of femininity and of sexual pleasure - may actually have been no more than an intermediate phase on the way to the confusion of categories that we have been discussing. The sexual revolution may thus turn out to have been just a stage in the genesis of transsexuality. What is at issue here, fundamentally, is the problematic fate of all revolutions. The cybernetic revolution, in view of the equivalence of brain and computer, places humanity before the crucial question 'Am I a man or a machine? ' The genetic revolution that is taking place at the moment raises the question 'Am I a man or just a potential clone? ' The sexual revolution, by liberating all the potentialities of desire, raises another fundamental question, 'Am I a man or a woman?' (If it has done nothing else, psychoanalysis has certainly added its weight to this principle of sexual uncertainty.) As for the political and social revolution, the prototype for all the others, it will turn out to have led man by an implacable logic - having offered him his own freedom, his own free will - to ask himself where his own will lies, what he wants in his heart of hearts, and what he is entitled to expect from himself. To these questions there are no answers. Such is the paradoxical outcome of every revolution: revolution opens the door to indeterminacy, anxiety and confusion. Once the orgy was over, liberation was seen to have left everyone looking for their generic and sexual identity - and with fewer and fewer answers available, in view of the traffic in signs and the multiplicity of pleasures on offer. That is how we became transsexuals - just as we became transpoliticals: in other words, politically indifferent and undifferentiated beings, androgynous and hermaphroditic - for by this time we had embraced, digested and rejected the most contradictory ideologies, and were left wearing only their masks: we had become, in our own heads - and perhaps unbeknownst to ourselves - transvestites of the political realm.

That was what the agencies wanted: to mask everyone, to blindfold and brainwash them until habit became the new truth. Yes, rebels suffered. They were abused, wounded, locked up, and killed. Their families were broken apart like shattered clocks that could no longer tell time. History had a way of finger-painting every revolution with blood. Yet to what end would blind obedience lead? What was the purpose of blinding them all? Lexi's hand reached up and stroked Dominic's face. Beneath his scruff, above the webbing of nerves and veins, she thought for a moment that her fingers brushed against a string. "You put it on and take it off, my love," she whispered. "Until one day that mask might not come off. What then?" He shoved her away and switched off the light.

The truth about yourself is so near, so close, that it is very difficult to perceive. Just as it is difficult to style your hair, apply makeup, or shave without a mirror, we require a mirror of sorts to spiritually groom ourselves. For most, that mirror is relationships with others. People who wear masks of untrustworthiness, dishonesty, selfishness, and greed see those qualities reflected back from everyone they meet—even the most noble souls who cross their paths. But people who have put their masks aside are able to experience compassion, love, and wholeness in others, even in their adversaries—even in those who are still mired in a tangled web of fear, insecurity, and abrasiveness.

I also couldn’t help noticing how often news reports about some modeler’s latest findings would leave out important nuances and caveats. In March 2020, Neil Ferguson, a highly respected epidemiologist at Imperial College, predicted that there could be more than 500,000 COVID deaths in the U.K. and more than 2 million in the U.S. over the course of the pandemic. That caused quite a stir in the press, but few reporters mentioned a key point that Ferguson had been very clear about: The scenario of his that made all the headlines assumed that people wouldn’t change their behavior—that no one would wear masks or shelter in place, for instance—but of course that wouldn’t be the case in reality. He wanted to show how high the stakes were and demonstrate the value of masks and other interventions, not drive everyone into a panic.

The government insists that the many shall not be placed in danger for the few and that EVERYONE SHALL WEAR A MASK. Those who are not doing so are not showing their independence - they are showing their indifference for the lives of others

For a breath, Iris couldn’t move. And whatever mask he had been wearing for everyone else—the

David gets in the front seat and I don't even argue, I imagine the backseat as a ditch on a battlefield, safe-ish from flying artillery. But no one argues. My dad is an expert at pretending everything is fine, and my brother actually smiles tells Dad a story from school. I should be happy, relieved that the two hours to Cincinnati are peaceful, but I can't help but feel everyone in the car is wearing a mask, especially me

Transness is not a masking but rather an unmasking, a stripping of a performance expected of us by way of biological essentialism. For some trans people, this process of unmasking may require physical changes. Some may identify with this notion of the death of a past self. For others these changes are not necessary. They may feel as if they were never masked at all or that no physical representation accurately approximates their truth. Unmasking can be a delicate process as a nonbinary person because of its diversity of expression. Androgyny, for example (and not in any way synonymous with nonbinary), doesn’t look a certain way, though gender is ingrained in society such that liberal readings are applied to everyone, sprinkling gender on everything from haircuts to careers to alcoholic beverages. In this way, presentation, when considered for the purposes of legibility, feels futile. I can wear oversize button-down shirts that drape on a bound chest, slouch my shoulders and trim my hair short to avoid being read as “cishet woman” at the very least. But I am more fluid, more expansive than an identity built off of what I am not.

All her memories have a fragile nature to them. She needed it to be that way to fool herself and everyone else in the palace.

Working in mental health support has made me realize that everyone wears a mask and everyone deserves a second chance because it's our first time at life.

Just by wearing a mask I forgot about everything and everyone. How is that possible? I’ve trodden on both Nicolle and Susanna, in one go. Tears trickle down his heavily made up face. He quickly wipes his face with both hands and then looks at them: they’re dirty and sticky. He doesn’t go upstairs to wash. Cupid has fallen and is now chained to an armchair in remorse, waiting for Ian to arrive.

Everyone wears masks. They come in all different shapes and sizes. The only problem with trying one on — is that it fits. How easily we fall into the trap that we don’t have to be who we really are. How easily we convince ourselves that we need to cover up what we were born to be. It’s a tragedy — that fear keeps us from our destiny. It’s hell — when the person you were created to be — is covered up by some cheap imposter

Everyone plays their role and wears a mask. Your mask hides just how brilliant you are, and what emotions and feelings you truly feel. I noticed that the day I met you,” he said. “My mask keeps me safe from scrutiny and suspicion.

I have seen you in the light I have seen you in the dark I have seen you in a fight to others, you have left your mark you felt the tears on your face heartbroken by lies life took away your youth in its place left the light in your eyes years took away your beauty the seasons blessed you with old age your longings and dreams entwined in your duty nothing feels the same even to a sage everyone in the world broken you feel like you are in a cage nothing will be left unspoken and you want to scream with rage what I will say is for your heart and mind I want to be that friend you always wanted and never had I want to be that person in your life where you don’t have to wear a mask any more to impress, to belong, to be accepted as you for one day I want to be that man you look at with sincere full heart and to hear you say, off all the best things, of best things that has come and gone in my life you are the best thing of the best things that has happened to me in my life I know all this, because you are the best thing that's happened to me in my lifetime it is simple and real as love gets what else can I offer you everything I have in life is in these words

For a breath, Iris couldn’t move. And whatever mask he had been wearing for everyone else—the smile and the merry eyes and the flushed cheeks—faded until she saw how exhausted and sad he was.

the world is a big ball where everyone wears a mask.

A man without a mask' is indeed very rare. One even doubts the possibility of such a man. Everyone in some measure wears a mask, and there are many things we do not put ourselves into fully. In 'ordinary' life it seems hardly possible for it to be otherwise. [The false-self system]

crouched a bit until I couldn’t see Cob and his agents, and then at the top of my lungs, I shouted, “Oh sick! There’s a rat in the room! It’s as big as a potato!” Everyone in the art class, including Cob and the Glitch agents, freaked. Desks were turned over as students panicked, running wild in every direction. The muffled screams and shouts coming from behind the tribal art masks made things even crazier. It was like a mosh pit at a rock concert. I stood tall in the middle of the chaos because I knew there wasn’t really a rat in the room. It felt a bit like I was wearing some kind of invincibility shield from a video game. It was the only time in my life that I was completely calm in a roomful of crazies, which was the total opposite of how it normally would’ve been. As I made my way to the exit, I let the tribal mask drop to the floor. Checking to see if Cob was following me wasn’t even necessary. His voice was the loudest in the room, screaming something about “potato rats” being the grossest things ever.

It’s hard to be something that you’re not. It’s hard to keep everyone happy, wear different masks, and pretend, depending on who you’re with. You know what’s easy: being you, being real, being vulnerable.

As the war was ending, the international flu epidemic of 1918 hit. Frances was one of the hundreds of thousands struck with the virus, which killed so many people that newspaper obituaries were divided into three sections: deaths, war dead, and “epidemic casualties.” Letters from home told her that everyone was wearing masks, theaters were closed, and some studios had stopped production. Troop movements were canceled. To go outside was to risk your life. Young and old were dying of the disease after only a few days of being afflicted. Her dear New York friend, the composer Felix Arndt, who had written Nola for his wife and Marionette for Frances, was gone at the age of twenty-two. Adela Rogers St. Johns’s beloved new stepmother had died as well. No one escaped being touched in one way or another.36

Even those of us who didn’t get sick or get sucked into poverty were prisoners in our own homes during the lockdown. There were no bars, no movie theaters, no sports, no concerts, no public entertainment of any kind. If we left the house to buy food, we had to wear medical masks. No one had a face anymore! No one could smile at you. We were a giant, soulless blob with a thousand vacant eyes. Our entire population was cut off from everything that gave us joy and everyone around me succumbed to insanity ... they spent all their time bragging about arguments they’d won on the internet with people they had never met.

The stories of people who are making sacrifices to help others during this crisis could fill an entire book. Around the world, health care workers put themselves at risk to treat sick people—according to the WHO, more than 115,000 had lost their lives taking care of COVID patients by May 2021. First responders and frontline workers kept showing up and doing their jobs. People checked in on neighbors and bought groceries for them when they couldn’t leave home. Countless people followed the mask mandates and stayed home as much as possible. Scientists worked around the clock, using all their brainpower to stop the virus and save lives. Politicians made decisions based on data and evidence, even though these decisions weren’t always the popular choice. Not everyone did the right thing, of course. Some people have refused to wear masks or get vaccinated. Some politicians have denied the severity of the disease, shut down attempts to limit its spread, and even implied that there’s something sinister in the vaccines. It’s impossible to ignore the impact their choices are having on millions of people, and there’s no better proof of those old political clichés: Elections have consequences, and leadership matters.

It was a beautiful fall day at the soccer fields when I met Stacy for the first time. The game had just begun when she arrived carrying homemade pumpkin spice muffins with cream cheese frosting for everyone, photos of the jack-o’-lantern she had elaborately carved earlier that morning into the shape of a witch stirring a bubbling cauldron with the rising steam spelling out the word “Boo,” enough material and glue for each of the siblings not playing soccer to make adorable “easy no-sew” bat wings as a fun craft to fill their time, as well as little gift bags for every mother full of Halloween-themed wine charms and sleep masks that were embroidered with “Sleeping for a spell.” Besides her generous gifts, she also looked terrific. She was wearing the perfect fall outfit with just the right number of layers and textures and cool boots. Her hair was beautifully twisted into a loose braid casually thrown over one shoulder. While everyone sat in their lawn chair and screamed at their kid to “attack the ball,” Stacy ran up and down the sidelines taking (no doubt fabulous) photos of her son and overseeing the siblings’ craft bonanza. At this point I should also mention, in case you don’t feel bad enough about yourself, that Stacy has a full-time job outside the home. Like a really important one. I’m not sure what she does exactly, but from the thirty seconds that she slowed down long enough to talk to me, I learned that she works fifty hours a week or so and travels around the country every few days and then comes home and makes her kids pancakes in the shape of clovers for breakfast, because it’s International Clover Day or some shit like that.

I will never fully open to anyone. Even to the ones dearest to me. Everyone has to keep their secrets, have something for oneself. For who? For yourself! If you give away everything then who are you? Why do you need insides, skin on the surface which hides something? When you talk to people, if it's compulsory, you put on a mask and its the only thing that will save you. For me its easy. But if I don't want to wear a mask, I leave. I think we all wear masks, every one of us.

Talked to my mom today, who is now feeling much better, post-covid, even though it was the “sickest she’d ever been.” She was telling me how nice it was to be in Texas: it’s so different, everyone goes out to restaurants and no one wears masks. She wanted me to visit sometime soon, and I was all, “Well, once it’s safe,” and then she told me she was worried about my/my husband’s mental health from being such shut-ins and that.... I shouldn’t “live in fear” about covid. I told her I don’t live in fear, I live in science, like I have been doing all this time, trying my hardest not to kill anyone else. It was hard not to throw my phone across my backyard at that point, really. Jesus wept. Can’t wait to go back to work tomorrow and take care of people who apparently did or did not fear covid an appropriate amount, thus ending their lives precipitously.

First they warn everyone to wear a mask. Then we find out unless it's a special kind of mask it's not going to protect you at all." "It's not just a question of beds. There's not enough linen, not enough gloves, gowns, hypodermic needles, disinfectant, meds, you name it. Not enough ambulances, not enough ventilators or other equipment. Hospitals are even running out of food." "It's not like every other bad thing stopped happening to make room for the flu. People are still getting cancer and having heart attacks and strokes and road accidents. The idea that we could handle any kind of surge on top of that--whoever's fantasy that was, it was never going to happen." "The retired workers they were depending on to take over for the workers out sick? Very few of those people ever showed. The volunteer doctors and nurses and the other helping hands--they aren't showing up, either. It's not like 9/11. There aren't any heroes rushing toward the danger. The danger is everywhere, and everyone's running scared." "Let's face it, this is America. Anything that's bad for business, people don't want to hear. When it comes to money or doing the right thing, most people are going to choose money. Close up shop for months till they can make a new vaccine? How many businesses would still be alive after that?" "This disaster proves what some of us have been saying about America all along: everything is broken.

The school stank of Lysol, and several times a day they all had to line up and wash their hands. Clean hands save lives was the message being hammered into them. When it came to spreading infection, they were informed, they themselves--school kids--were the biggest culprits. Even if you weren't sick yourself, you could shed germs and make other people sick. Cole was struck by the word shed. The idea that he could shed invisible germs the way Sadie shed dog hairs was awesome to him. He pictured the germs as strands of hair with legs like centipedes, invisible but crawling everywhere. Minibottles of sanitizer were distributed for use when soap and water weren't available. Everyone was supposed to receive a new bottle each day, but the supply ran out quickly--not just at school but all over. Among teachers this actually brought relief, because the white, slightly sticky lotion was so like something else that some kids couldn't resist. Gobs started appearing on chairs, on the backs of girls' jeans, or even in their hair, and one boy caused an uproar by squirting it all over his face. Never Sneeze into Your Hand, read signs posted everywhere. And: Keep Your Hands to Yourself (these signs had actually been there before but now had a double meaning). If you had to sneeze, you should do it into a tissue. If you didn't have a tissue, you should use the crook of your arm. "But that's vomitous," squealed Norris (one of the two whispering blondes). These rules were like a lot of other school rules: nobody paid much attention to them. Some school employees started wearing rubber gloves. Cafeteria servers, who already wore gloves, started wearing surgical masks as well. Cole lost his appetite. He couldn't stop thinking about hospitals. Flesh being cut open, flesh being sewn up. How could you tell if you had the flu? The symptoms were listed on the board in every room: Fever. Aches. Chills. Dry cough. What must you do if you had these symptoms? YOU MUST STAY HOME.

The surgical mask everyone’s been fighting about wearing? That’s nothing. It’s so fucking easy. It’s the lugging around of cynicism and suspicion, the weight of being so wary all the time, that is deadly

And whatever mask he had been wearing for everyone else, the smile, and the merry eyes, and the flushed cheeks. Faded until she saw how exhausted and sad he was. It struck a chord within her. Music that she could feel deep in her bones.

Seeing this side of Camille, the ordinary woman who’s not wearing a mask of sophistication to impress everyone around her, impresses me a hell of a lot more than the socialite act.

Cassilda: (speaking to herself) We strain our ears for the sound of love, but must all mothers bear the horror of seeing their Children grow from wonderful possibility to grim reality? Stranger: (Stands mutely in the shadows, his hands folding across his chest) Cassilda: If only we could stay a moment behind the veil of time, and live in that moment of indecision. Stranger: (Whispers so Cassilda cannot hear) Existence is decision. (...) [Te Child appears before the closed curtain] 1 Te Child: I am not the Prologue, nor the Afterword; call me the Prototaph. My role is this: to tell you it is now too late to close the book or quit the theatre. You already thought you should have done so earlier, but you stayed. How harmless it all is! No definite principles are involved, no doctrines promulgated in these pristine pages, no convictions outraged…but the blow has fallen, and now it is too late. And shall I tell you where the sin lies? It is yours. You listened to us; and all the say you stay to see the Sign. Now you are ours, or, since the runes also run backwards, we are yours…forever. (...) Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink behind the lake, The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead; Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa. (...) [As the gong continues to strike, everyone begins to unmask. There are murmurs and gestures of surprise, real or polite, as identities are recognized or revealed. Ten there is a wave of laugher. The music becomes louder and increases in tempo.] Camilla: You, sir, should unmask. Stranger: Indeed? Camilla: Indeed, it’s time. We have all laid aside disguise but you. Stranger: I wear no mask. Camilla: No mask? No mask! Stranger: I, I am the Pallid Mask itself. I, I am the Phantom of Truth. I came from Alar. My star is Aldebaran. Truth is our invention; it is our weapon of war. And see–by this sign we have conquered, and the siege of good and evil is ended… § [On the horizon, the towers of Carcosa begin to glow] Noatalba: (Pointing) Look, look! Carcosa, Carcosa is on fire! (...) The King: Te Phantom of ruth shall be laid. Te scalloped tattersof Te King must hide Haita forever. As for thee, Yhtill– All: No! No, no! Te King: And as for thee, we tell you this; it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living god. (...) Te Stranger falls, and everyone else sinks slowly to the ground after him. Te King can now be seen, although only faintly. He stands in state upon the balcony. He has no face, and is twice as tall as a man. He wears painted shows under his tattered, fantastically colored robes, and a streamer of silk appears to fall from the pointed tip of his hood. Behind his back he holds inverted a torch with a turned and jeweled shaft, which emits smoke, but no light. At times he appears to be winged; at others, haloed. These details are for the costumier; at no point should Te King be sufficiently visible to make themall out. Behind him, Carcosa and the Lake of Hali have vanished. Instead, there appears at his back a huge sculptured shield, in shape suggesting a labrys of onyx, upon which the Yellow Sign is chased in gold. Te rest of the stage darkens gradually, until, at the end, it is lit only by the decomposed body of the Stranger, phosphorescing bluely.]

The King: Until then, Carcosa will vanish; but my rule, I tell you now, is permanent, despite Aldebaran. Be warned. Also be promised: He who triumphs in this war shall be my inheritor, and so shall have the Dynasty back. But think: Already you own the world. Te great query is, can you rule it? Te query is the gift. The King in Yellow gives it into your hands, to hold…or to let loose. Choose, terrible Children. Noatalba: You are King, and are most gracious. We thank you. The King: You thank me? I am the living god! Bethink thyself, priest. There is a price; I have not as yet stated the half of it. (Everyone waits, petrified) The King: The price is the fixing of the Mask. (Silence) The King: Yhtill, you acceded to, and wore the Pallid Mask. That is the price. Henceforth, all in Yhtill shall wear the Mask, and by this sign be known. And war between the masked men and the naked shall be perpetual and bloody, until I come again…or fail to come. Cassilda: (Standing and throwing her arms wide) Not upon us! Not upon us! The King: (Offstage, remote, diminishing) What! Did you think to be human still? § [Those onstage hesitate, as if lost. Then, following Cassilda’s lead, each stoops, picks up his or her Mask and puts it on, turning to face the audience and standing in still silence. When all others are Masked theChild enters from the rear, wearing a mask himself. He walks to the front of the stage and draws the curtain. He turns to the audience] Child: Yhtill and Carcosa are now one city, and our tale is at its end, make of it what you will–history, fable, nonsense or cautionary tale, it is nonetheless, the only tale there is. § [Te Child exits through the curtains, and the house lights come up at once. There are to be no curtain calls.]

depression most of my life.” He sighs, his eyes unfocused as if looking at something that only exists in his mind. “It’s wanting the next new thing, bigger, better, faster. It’s never leaving your bed. It’s crying, it’s yelling, it’s deafening silence. It’s refusing to look at yourself because it’s easier to blame those around you. It’s not eating. It’s pigging out. It’s drinking, it’s recklessness, and it’s apathy. Depression doesn’t have just one face; it wears many masks…it hits you like a freight train and sneaks up on you like the setting sun. There is no conclusive list of symptoms because everyone is different. Every catalyst or chemical imbalance is different. Depression is an equal opportunity bitch. Probably the only thing that truly binds us together as

You know what I have learnt, when you can't stand up for others you lack the spine, which means you can never truly stand up for your own self. And vice versa. It is as basic and simple as that, when you can't man up the courage and voice up against the evils of this society, you become a part of that evil cycle, you become the very vacuum through which the injustices flow. But it's not your fault, it's called Spine, and God hasn't really graced everyone with it. Anyway, this isn't gonna be a talk invested on such creatures, neither on those who try their hardest to pull others down by body-shaming, age-shaming, ganging up to mock and ridicule, in short being a bully to those their darkness can't withstand the Light of. This is for everyone, Woman and Man, who's faced such a bully in their personal space, workspace or even in their random space. You guys, stay in your Light and remember when someone is literally shaken by your power and feel their failures as a living success on your being, they try to pull you down. It's like their mind cannot fathom how you shine all along that too so spontaneously and palpably, while those poor insecure beings have to literally wear a mask or turn in tactics that their soul knows the cost of. This is for everyone, who stands up for their own selves and for every other soul who they see deserve (no, not need but deserve, these two words have very different connotations) their support at the moment, to fight the menaces of this evil system. This is a Thank You note to every soul who fights these Bullies with a fierce strength and sunshine. You go, guys. You've got this. Every day, we lose countless people from suicides to depression, and one of the core reasons to that is always going to be these cruel and worthless beings who try to pull down another only to feel their worth, because of their own insecurities; we lose good people from children to adults, because certain dark creatures are too loud in their derogatory treatment, and certain 'neutral' people find it difficult to take a stand (after all, those words weren't hurled at you, right?), but you see that's the thing we gotta tell the good people, that their goodness is their strength not weakness, we gotta tell them to raise their voices for themselves, because honestly one clear voice is enough, always enough. You don't have to be loud to be heard. And if you think, they are too many and you're just one, remember a sheep moves in a herd, a lioness, oh she roars baby, and that's just pretty much enough. And if this gives you Strength, remember every time someone tries to pull you down, someone bullies you, it's just a reflection of their own insecurities; it has absolutely nothing to do with you. Remember who you are, and walk with your Head up. And if you're fortunate, you will find some support coming your way in the shape of like-minded souls, true friends and souls who know what it takes to be human and stand up with a clear spine, and then be gracious enough to thank them with all your soul. So this one's for them, who know their worth and have the heart to stand up for what's important not only for their own sake but for others around. Because when you fight to let your goodness shine on an individual level, you also channelise the spirit of fighting for the good at the collective level. Hope this reaches and gives courage and strength to at least a single being, remember you've got this, already. Love & Light, always - Debatrayee

In the land of little dogs, everyone could live how they pleased if only anyone knew what they wanted. But in the land of little dogs, no one believes in their aspirations, because everyone knows that they themselves are lying cheats. There's only one wish in the land of little dogs, and that is to want to always be someone else. Everything is fluid in the land of little dogs, even stones. And the stone of dishonesty displaces the stone of honesty. There, even the masks wear masks. And to don yet another mask is called unmasking.

I am Alice,” said the ninja, “leader of the Ninja Squad!”  She pulled out two wooden swords and swirled them around her head before striking a pose. She was clad all in black, and only her eyes were visible through the small slit in her hood. Another ninja stepped forward. He was also clad head to toe in black, with a white mask covering his face. “I’m Shadow,” he said, “the leader of the Ninja Squad, and master of the art of shadow stealth techniques. I can hide inside any shadow, and sneak up on any foe.” Another ninja stepped forward. He was wearing a black ninja outfit, but over his eye-slit he was wearing a pair of sunglasses. “Hey dudes, I’m DJ,” he said, “the jukebox ninja, and leader of the Ninja Squad. I can hide inside music, and assassinate foes with the power of awesome beats.” “Wait,” said Dave. “How can all three of you be the leader?” “We held a vote,” said Shadow, looking a bit embarrassed, “to see who should be leader. And, um…” “Everyone voted for themselves,” said Alice. “Riiight,” said Dave. “Anyway, now that’s out of the way—” “Silence mortal!” yelled another ninja. “We haven’t finished our introductions yet! I am Kyle the Mighty! Defeater of zombies and defender of this realm! I can summon thunder from the heavens to smite my foes! I am the leader of the Ninja Squad!

You don’t have to wear the mask,” said Arajo, looking at her with concern. “If I don’t,” said Juliet, “I’m saying that everyone in the room is my better, and deserves to rule me.” Arajo went very still. “Is that how you felt when you came here?” she asked. Juliet hesitated a few moments, trying to find the truth. “Yes,” she said finally. “But at least you were all shaming yourselves along with me.

To his horror, Melrose saw that these were name tags she was now pinning to the Attaboys’ clothing and that the other guests were wearing them. To his double horror, he saw her hand closing on his lapel. He shoved it away. Her smile-mask cracked. “But everyone’s wearing them just to make it easier.” “I’d much rather make it harder.” He walked off toward the drinks.

No one is real. Everyone on Earth is pretending. Even we are not true to ourselves, when no one is around. We all are wearing mask so that we can hide our face...

When someone fervently wants for a very long time to seem something, it will eventually be difficult for that person to be anything else. The profession of almost everyone, even of the artist, begins with hypocrisy, with an imitating from outside and a mimicking of what works effectively. One who always wears the mask of friendly expressions must eventually gain power over benevolent moods, without which the expression of friendliness cannot be effected – and finally these moods gain power over him, and he is benevolent.

Maybe it wasn’t her,” Mike suggested. “It was only someone pretending to be her. Like wearing one of those incredibly lifelike masks that they have in the Mission: Impossible movies.” “We don’t have masks like that in real life,” Jawa told him. “Really?” Mike asked, sounding disappointed. “Why not?” “Because they’re impossible to make,” Zoe said. “The CIA’s been trying for years, and the closest they’ve gotten still makes you look like someone whose face is melting off their head. Which is great if you need to blend in with a bunch of zombies, but not very useful otherwise.” Chip looked to Mike. “No one here has ever told you those Mission: Impossible masks don’t really exist?” “Oh, plenty of people have,” Mike said. “But I thought maybe everyone was just keeping them a secret.

She got on the train and found a seat on the cold molded plastic. Looking around, Olivia saw her fellow passengers wearing masks of disinterest. But Olivia knew that very few of those masks reflected what was going on in the brains of their owners. Everyone was entertaining their own parties of inner turmoil. No one had it easy.

The State Lay in wait Attica Attack Troops wearing masks carrying gas cannisters and proud to be white proud to be doing what everyone can for The Man

You would never have imagined that almost empty sanctuary, just a few women there with heavy veils on to try to hide the masks they were wearing, and two or three men. I preached with a scarf around my mouth for more than a year. Everyone smelled like onions, because word went around that flu germs were killed by onions. People rubbed themselves down with tobacco leaves.

Self-Consciousness In addition to the divisions of specific and generalized social anxiety, experts also identify two types of self-consciousness: public self-consciousness and private self-consciousness. Although self-awareness and self-insight are positive traits in healthy personalities, in people with social anxiety this awareness becomes extreme and obsessive. Publicly self-conscious people are extremely aware of what others think of them. They worry about how they appear and the impression they are making. Many publicly shy people describe feeling distanced from an event in which they are participating. For instance, while they are speaking with someone, they are constantly evaluating and editing how they act and what they say. As a result, they feel they do not fully take part in any activities. Imagine you are going to a party with a popular group of people. If you are publicly shy, you would worry all afternoon about what you were going to wear and what others will think of you. When you finally walk into the party, you notice that two of the people you admire are wearing khakis and button-down shirts, and you immediately feel out of place in your jeans and T-shirt. You think everyone is watching you and wondering why you are there when it is obvious you don’t belong. When someone attempts to speak with you, you are so overwhelmed that you can stutter only a brief reply before running to the rest room. By contrast, if you are a privately shy person, you can appear at ease in social situations. At the same party, you might be able to tell jokes and be the center of attention, while internally you are in turmoil. Privately self-conscious people are more concerned about protecting how they feel than about how others view them. Sometimes, they try to hide their fears by being loud and talkative. Many comedians, actors, and singers are privately shy people. They are able to mask their feelings of inadequacy, but they feel phony and lack true self-confidence. No matter whether you have specific or generalized social anxiety or are publicly or privately shy, social anxiety has a strong impact on your life.