I was an audience of a play last night.
A play i criticised so much before watching, but left me contemplating about plenty of things after.
Whoever said that life is a stage was right - a fact that i realised when i was 5 but forgot about afew years later.
It does clear things up abit.
Depressing.
Everything is so depressing.
The world's a mess, and one would look into oneself to find the answer, and the deeper he looks, the messier the mess he saw. Reflect upon others as how he reflected upon himself, and if he was an other, he would definitely not be concerned of himself.
I'm not the main character in my tragic life story. I am an audience. The story is mine, it is about me, but no, i am one with the audience.
I sit and watch the actors following their storyline, each with their own premade scripts and i watch them interact with one another.
I watch them. They die inside and break many tears i watched them.
My world is a stage, one i'm not on like all the performers.
The stage is no place for me.
I am the one in the audience who would help those tragic actors and actresses if i could, but i am, an audience. I could only watch what i could not reach for. A puzzle i could solve that is beyond my grasp.
In the audience i sit while they share their pain and sorrow for all to feel. In the audience i sit while my emotions eat me up alive. In the audience, to the unreachable stage, i sit helpless.
Should i seem angry and not tell you about it, should i seem angry and not share it with you, should i seem angry and i do not look to you, then chances are, i'm angry at you.
About Me
- NeoWakko
- Words can help us grow, Like horse piss help trees. (Wonderfully btw)
2 comments:
Sometimes life is like that. A stage, where one feels more disconnected than anything, although it is your own life, but it feels like you're more like a member of the audience than a member of that play. And then it seems lost.
Freyja: Getting a wee bit Shakespearean are we? Macbeth's solilquoy in Act 5:v
(In reference to Lady Macbeth)
She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Miss you all loads
Love,
Freyja
Post a Comment