Distance As Shield

Men are born into a world that rewards performance.
Smile the right way, move with the right timing, say the right lines.
It isn’t presence that gets applauded, but the show of it.

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So he learns to guard himself with distance.
Not because he doesn’t crave closeness,
but because closeness threatens the mask he’s been taught to wear.
The shield of distance feels safe—
nobody can pierce what they cannot reach.

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But safety hardens into emptiness.
A man armored in distance forgets the taste of being felt.
He mistakes the dull ache of separation for strength.
He tells himself it’s composure when it’s really hunger denied.

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True mastery is not escape.
It is the courage to drop the shield,
to stand where feeling cuts against the conditioning,
to remain real in a world that lives for the mask.

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Presence is heavier than performance.
It bends the room without noise,
and it rearranges all who come near.
When a man lives there,
he no longer fears closeness—
because he knows nothing can strip away what is already true.