A friend told me about an exhibition she went to recently where the artist had created an installation by weaving together the responses of people to questions about their fears.
Freed by anonymity to express what they truly felt, the work was a poignant tale about a fragile species, compensating for its vulnerability with defenses and masks.
Not surprisingly old and young, women and men, corporates, labourers, poor, rich echoed the same moving narrative: we are afraid of being real.
Although we are all imperfect we live in a world that demands it be reigned in, tempered, hidden away.
Ironic that others ask us for perfection, which they cannot provide.
There are many reasons why we hide feelings.