Beneath the tape

Every day we think the same
Like songs played from a tape cassette
Every day we act the same
Like actors on a stage.

We fill the mind with shows and news
We think of worries, bills and chores
It's like a web of thoughts and feelings
But which of these is us?

We trade our shallow pleasantries,
We smile, replaying banalities,
We laugh at jokes, at plays and shows
But which of these is us?

It's only when we cry, I reckon
We are the most sincere,
It's when a song that gives us chills
We glimpse the truth in us.