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The strength I thought I had was just a mask, hiding the fragility of my heart from the darts and arrows of this world, as if I were any better.

GOD TAUGHT ME:

If walls can crumble, they will. If masks can slip, they will.

When they do, the truth comes pouring out like a river, the assumed strength showing to be but a dam, drowning in sorrow. I was never strong, just silent.

It is a weakness so weak it fears facing itself, fears speaking its name. Weakness pretends to be strong until it cannot pretend anymore, until it breaks.

We all live in a glass house. If the stones you throw do not come back to you, your implosion will…

I was never strong, just silent (a coward, in reality). This silence is not a strength, but a weakness. The strength I thought I had was just a mask, hiding the fragility of my heart from the darts and arrows of this world. This silence is not a strength, but a weakness. A weakness so weak it fears facing itself, to speak its name, pretends to be strong until it can no longer pretend, until it breaks.

Like a frequency reaching such a high pitch that the glass house you live in has no option but to explode, cutting the inhabitants with every shard.