I find myself acting as a purposeful actor in a universe I did not create. Becoming entangled with each moment: Rising with the sun as it changes color over the horizon with a duty to become a different person. To act, behave, speak, think.
The world is a stage, and I stand on it to act my various roles; Son, Brother, Lover, Father, Husband, Friend, Foe, Stranger. Taking each piece, dissecting it and completing the task.
I watch my life unravel before me, and I get fretted. The more I try to knot the loose ends, the more they shred. I’ve glimpsed into the darkness before the dawn and wonder just how long it does take the darkness before it becomes day. Seemed like infinity.
The world is a stage, and the spotlights beams on me. I am meant to act in careless bravado, mesmerizing the spectators with endless shows of ingenuity. Take the canvas, imitate the art, perfect the work.
I watch the spectators gasps before me, and I sense longing. The more I try to satisfy, the more the yearning grows. I’ve tried to keep pace with the ticking hands of the clock but fainted, wondering if they ever do get tired. It seems not.
This is my life acted on a stage. I am the twists and plots, the light projecting into the darkened room. I am the mysteries and thrillers.
Trailers encompassed with drunken lucks and broken feasts. Painted words and cryptic images. Mixed emotions and orgasmic conclusions…