Sometimes I feel like my entire life is a performance for some unknown audience outside of myself.
I had a good cry this morning. Like you do when shit happens.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and wondered who it was for.
If I write about it here, was it for you, dear readers?
Some angsty vulnerable moment that I subconsciously know I will share later? Some act that I am performing for the purpose of putting it into some public script after the fact?
If I don’t write about it, or tell anyone, and nobody sees, does it mean anything?
If a tree falls in the forest and etc.
Sometimes it feels like it is ALL performance. All of it. My relationships, my career, my emotions, my entire life, everything.
None of it feels real, none of it matters, they are all just different acts in which I sing pitch-perfect songs in carefully choreographed dances that demonstrate how human I am.
I’m good at it. Successful in most realms, playing the various parts to such perfection that I excel at most of the plays I put on. I’m an accomplished student, a caring daughter, a supportive sister, a successful worker, a kind friend, a loving partner, an impressive dominant, a clever and carefully curated actor of my own creation.
Audience applauds, presents me with a bunch of roses, I smile and humbly accept them.
I take a bow, and move off to another stage, put on a different costume and perform again.