Mask Factory

Twilight is a mask factory. 

All the masks have a common factor: they consist largely of layer upon layer of carefully sculpted shadows. 

Every person, building, animal is masquerading. A common house morphs into an illegal drugstore; a school, emptied of its children, becomes a echo chamber of silence. A regal moose stands invisibly in the middle of the road wearing a camouflage mask of darkness, an accident in the making. Shadow-masks make innocent buildings into menaces, make daytime scenarios into mysteries. A clear pool of water wears a mirrored mask  of moonlight. A layer of ice looks deceptively like water, even though headlights do a pretty good job of penetrating the shadow-mask. Train whistles in the thick night air are garbled and also carry eerily, just like a person at Walmart trying to make conversation while wearing a facemask. In a shadow-mask, the scattered lights of local villages make them appear to be the towns they aspire to be. Predators love masks: for example, no one ever sees the cougar said to be roaming locally even though they hear him/her; his mask is as effective as we wish ours was. Some masks aren’t effective: in the mask of darkness, hoods on teenagers conceal faces, but their stance and gait give them away to people who know them; strange shadows merge into familiar every day landmarks when you look twice. Situations are distorted by shadow-masks too. A shout makes me think a fight is about to happen when in reality someone is just venting frustration. A vehicle parked beside the road with no lights is suspicious until I realize it was abandoned becos it hit a deer and does not contain a sneaky drug dealer. 

Twilight masks faces too. And emotions. But that is a conversation for another day becos this is Enough metaphorical masks for tonight. Twilight really is a mask factory, though. 

Not just on Halloween.

Not just during a pandemic.