I’ve owned a mask or two. Bust them out on a regular basis, from my plastered-on customer service smile to the resting bitch face I use to ward off conversation on the bus. Having a whole holiday centered around the masking of identity, the dressing up and welcoming of the strange and unusual, is right up my alley. An excellent opportunity to drop the mask and run amok, trawling thrift stores and playing with craft glue to put together an appropriately fun costume.
The one night a year where everyone’s supposed to be out making mischief. It’s a night you can smell, Halloween. All fallen leaves and damp night, snow melting into the gutters and mud and fake spiderwebs getting caked into your costume shoes. The wet marble of old graves sweats into the dark around a hastily set up ouija board and a few fools having a good time chatting with spirits who haven’t had visitors in a hundred years.
The graveyard I spent my childhood in is right across from the police station, but we were never bothered. Despite our blinking flashlights. Despite the “no entry after sunset” sign on the gate. Its a night with a different aura about it, playful, something that eases the rules while heightening the anxiety that something strange might just yet happen. A night filled with acts of subversion, a night where ghosts exist and demons walk among us. Where we get to indulge the morbid aspects of our personality, embrace the base animal fear we pretend we’re above for the rest of the year. Make your petty revenge, play seance, take candy from strangers — all fair game when society gets turned upside down. For the one night we are unmasked.
from the pen of icarus blake 
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