It's that feeling you get looking at someone else's vacation pictures. The smiling, candid faces of strangers are so genuine, the inside joke that lingers at the edges of the photo can almost be heard. You recognize happiness, but don't feel it. But a single recognizable face is worse. A good friend's family reunion pinned to the fridge alienates. The evidence of this secret piece of life elicits mild betrayal.
All my photos are this way. The face I recognize is mine. The strangers laugh with me. Embrace me. I strain to hear the inside side joke, but never do.