Theatre

unnamed

 

I am vividly aware of the fact that everything I do is a performance. A constant state of theatre. The lights of life glare down at me.

White. Blinding. Flaming.

The eyes of the audience glued to my monologues. Every gesture; the twirl of my fingertips, the turn of my palm, the doubling in my spine, these movements are meticulously calculated. Each step is counted and every trick measured.

Words memorized from a script, crafted to perfection. The audience must be pleased but never moved; they should chuckle but never laugh; they should be provoked but never feel uncomfortable.

I have nothing left to say. Perhaps just that I am tired. Tired of this constant acting. Exhausted by the unknown of reality.

The stage is no longer my home.

I can no longer perform. Just live.


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