In her poem, "The Poem as Mask," Muriel Rukeyser writes,

When I wrote of the women in their dances and wildness, it was a mask, 

 on their mountain, god-hunting, singing, in orgy,
it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,
fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone down with song,
it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from myself.

 
[...] Now for the first time, the god lifts his hand,
the fragments join in me with their own music.

* * * 

Why does every big new iteration not disappear the previous ones but
make it so that this one feels the most pertinent, feel like this time we're really beginning? 

But what is the reality of now? 

(apologies, Muriel, and thank you for your patience)

Sometime masks! Different mythologies!