My Jekyll and Hyde

There's this funny thing about being dreadfully honest and being honestly dreadful. You see, sometimes the two simply coincide. I could claim to be the former and not the latter, but that, in and of itself, would make me out to be the latter and not the former. However, if I would claim to be both I would find myself to be finally true to myself. I would be dreadfully honest to myself and I, myself, would be honestly dreadful.

Now, when I say dreadfully honest, I speak about an honesty that is like a fire that burns away all things, leaving only the truth, the bare truth,

And, in turn, when i speak of being honestly dreadful, I speak of that same bare truth, that fact that I am, strictly speaking, dreadful. I am full of dread at myself and people should rightfully be full of dread at the sight of me. This is not to say that I have the appearance of some dread monster, but nonetheless, I am a monster in mind, if not in shape.

I would claim to say that over all I'm fairly a decent guy. I have few faults. But by doing so, as with the aforementioned dilemma, I make myself out to be a man of only faults. Lies, deceptions, self flattery, and the like.

So in turn of pride, I would think it best to reveal such monsters that may come. Then by doing so, I may indeed scare some away, yet others will be glad to see such honesty.

I am neither however. Someday I'm the monster behind a mask and other days the mask is stripped 'way to reveal a pathetic, but much more true fellow.

Both forms will do wrong. One will do so and seek amends whereas the other simply does and covers up, or runs.

My friends, this is yet another confession while the mask is down. The mask I wear is one built of arrogance and pride, deception and a silver tongue, daggers in my teeth. This mask, however, has been put on a bit too tight. Sometimes it is hard to take off. Playing the part comes naturally. Sometimes it comes more naturally than being myself. It is more naturally than acting as myself.

With that said, it would also seem that the director of this production has set such limits with in my own script, which at times frustrate me, and yet altogether make me glad. To be dreadfully honest, I'll confess that in my mind I straddle the borders of lechery. Women should appease me. And yet, I fear the one thing that would certainly make me into that which I fear. I fear the act itself. When a twisted mind turns such thoughts from one step to another, I find myself closing out my mind and running from such thoughts, partly because of what little decency I have left, but also in part, because the act itself simply and totally consumes me with fear.

To further dive into such a mind that’s so twisted that you would see the roles intermingled, let me explain a further balance. Even when consumed with the notions of such perversity, I find myself still in this frame of mind of servitude. I would never long to force a woman upon myself, or myself upon her. But rather, so long as it is willing I would serve her with massages and sweet kisses and warm embraces. But never more, for to go more would scare me. And yet I find myself torn, craving to serve and welcome in sweet kisses and embraces. But again , never more.

It is strange, is it not? A man whose inner passions are so strange that I must fight a monster daily, yet the monster is so weak that it only asks for a kiss. Is that such a deadly monster? It is indeed, for this monster breeds lies and deceptive, anything to hold someone in his failsafe arms.

The final, and perhaps saddest part of this monologue against myself, is simply put that both the man and the mask desire the same thing. One desires to have that one woman to give his all to in the way that is true, a slower path, a steady path. The other side of the coin, when flipped, burns to have things now, to whisper sweet nothings, to be relieved of the cravings and to hold true to the beauty so long as he can serve her and by serving her, satisfy his desires for sweet kisses and a chance to touch soft skin. And even now, I find myself, tugging at the reins, furious that I've dared to place the mask upon myself once more. I stare at it as I write. Would it be so hard to put on the mask, and perform an act or two? Why, summer's just begun. It would be so easy, to find a friend who shares these thoughts, and together share them silently. To cuddle up and watch a film, and give ourselves away to excessive kissing. But again, never further. Such thoughts haunt my mind, when what I want is to keep myself restrained and waiting patiently for the one.

What a twisted man am I...