The Master of Puppets

When I put my mask on, I become omnipotent. I become all-powerful, able to dictate the world to my own terms. 
I’ve often looked out into a picturesque sky, perhaps with the clichéd autumn leaves filling up the smooth driveway lined by oaks; A cool wind blowing along and I resting my head on the window, sipping coffee.  I can shape the world to my whims and idiosyncrasies, with just a flutter of my fingertips. 

The world rests at my feet, the words I scribble, om the back of notebooks, the diary with the pretty cover, the writing-pad I carry. 

This mask, the mask of anonymity, isn’t something of mine to give away. 

 It’s just there, existing as a part of me. 

I can remove it, too. 

And when I do, my powers weaken.  

The view outside the window becomes slightly less sharp. Less colourful than it was before. 

The crispness my world is, the ability to shape and mould it to the delight of every eye glancing across the words I pen, my thoughts woven into coherence. It’s all a bit fuzzy now. 

My words don’t make sense. Their true form is hidden amongst the shadows. 

My draft remain my drafts. There are more times I tear sheets away, more periods of anxiety, more days of frustration over abandoned essays. 

It’s best, I realise, to not expose myself. The power of anonymity gives me the potency to unleash my most secret thoughts and desires. To write, uninhibited. To brew a storm, to transport the reader to newer worlds and places. To write tales of wit and wisdom, all a matter of self-discovery, all with a few well chosen words.