The Great Charade

We are genuine, we tell a mirror that is full of ourselves. The glass obediently responds with what we want to hear, and that's enough for us to start the day. For breakfast we decide to cook our own s**t. Sniffing our a*s to make believe that we're cautious, we grimace at the aroma; but we say it's a smile, so it is. Stomach already churning with ideas and putrid creativity, we rush out of the door at the command of Massuh Time. The radio greets us very usually in its chipper static. It reminds all of us, all over the world, of just how individual we're supposed to be. How thoughtful of it. Now we put our motivation in park wherever we tell ourselves we have to be. Of course we question our happiness or whatever as we walk into work, but those kinds of thoughts don't pay bills, so why do they matter? Here's the exciting part: we do exactly the same thing we've been doing our entire Monday-ne career, except today (and no, we don't do this every day, f**k off) we believe things will be different. We glance occasionally at the special religious ornament that we're required to have that hangs over the similarly mass-produced computer, glancing and maybe hoping? or thinking? or praying? One of those things. After we're done living for a day under responsible conditions, we drag ourselves cheerfully outside and die somewhere between that and what's called home. Home is this thing....they taught us about in school....I think it has a roof, and some windows and some other stuff. The best part about having one of these homes is the people it comes with, each of those people just as dead as we are. Maybe they died during school, or at the office, or at a daycare, but what matters is that inside our home we're dead together, as a family. Pretending is against our law, so we're completely honest around the dinner trays about our natively exotic routines. After we're done with that, we do whatever there is to do with plastic and rubber before getting ready for bed. Sleeping is a scary time, it's dark and all we're left with is the thoughts in our heads, the things that we don't talk or think about during the day. It's full of monsters like doubt, suspicion, regret-I don't want those things, all of the books on our nightstands told us so. We would just do what we normally do and drink some legal poison until we sleep without dreaming, but tomorrow we have to work again, so we settle for the pills instead. We close our eyes, and suddenly everything in our world is stained black. All things contrary to the way we like life is slowly drowned in melatonin.
Tonight, unfortunately, we dream anyway. Criticism has always been with us, like a brutally honest a*****e friend. We get terrifyingly close to it, and it looks at us with the eyes of the universe, and in those eyes we see nothing, so much nothing that nothing becomes everything. Now, like in all dreams, nonsense starts to sound rational, and for some reason we subconsciously believe radical notions. Suddenly, we aren't free. Suddenly, we're the problem. Suddenly, what we say is right and wrong is taken by someone else and they gawk at it and blasphemously say "no". Suddenly, everything changes, and the most shameful part is that right before we wake up, we whisper a lonely agreement.
We wake up, confused. Luckily we've learned how to not be confused-we don't question our dissatisfaction. We waste no time leaving our beds behind. We have a mirror anxiously waiting.