The power of a new costume briefly gives the assurance of confidence; the war paint that masks my face pulls it all together in the end. When did we begin trying to fit the ever-evolving mold? A transparent pressure only grows stronger as it comes down upon us. The essence of beauty is individualism, flaws are incriminating to some and adored by others.

We are vulnerable, members of a society that is constantly morphing. Judgement crashes upon us like tidal waves, dragging us along with the current. A hurried pace buzzes with us, fueling our want, our need to reach a certain level. Sadly though, once achieved, it's never strong enough.

We need to get to the point where we are only pleasing ourselves, where we strive to achieve what we long to be. A clean slate of what we should be.