mama we're all full of lies

What does it mean to be oneself? That's the question I've been asking myself for a very long time that I can't even recall the first time I took an interest in it. I don't believe what I see from other people, what I hear from them or what I feel is the real deal. With all it's untrustable glory, the science of psychology backs me up on that. Personas, egos and shadows and all that good stuff you know. Frankly, I am more interested in the problem of if is there a real self, anyway. Some might call it soul, some personality and I prefer 'self' because it sounds more unique and convincing than the others. Recently I feel like I might not have one. OR if I have one, then surely it is incomplete, lacking, deficient. Well, I admit having not read enough material on the functions of a self but when I think about its existence I find nothing but shells, personas and when I dig underneath, what I reach is a vast space; it's empty, not even air in it. If what people see of myself is a sturdy building standing strong and proud, what I see of myself is the imperfect infrastructure that almost always ceases to work; then my real self which supposes to exist is the empty underground the building is built on. It is there and it doesn't have a function therefore it also doesn't exist. It is untrustable. I can't be myself because my 'self' is nothing but emptiness, I can't express myself because there is nothing to express and when I do, it's all baseless lies. I can't know myself, learn about myself and I can't know people, learn about people, simply because me and them, we're not real. Our buildings, the masks we wear, this society we oh so clumsily created are lies and even when it is a good one I don't want to be a part of it most of the time. Because to keep this façade wears me down, to act like the only real thing I know doesn't exist at all is the biggest of lies and it's even uglier than me.