Do we have agency?
Perhaps among the oldest questions ever asked.
I can’t quite shake the feeling, that somehow reality itself is the ultimate stage.
As actors we choreograph our steps in real time. We improvise lines, feeding off each other’s energy,
Capitalising on each other’s empathy.
Reincarnating the spirit of characters we never knew.. but,
Who’s essence we carry with us as if it courses through our very veins..
Bending our bones with the heavy current of blood.
Forming frames, shapes and postures that feel foreign to the body – yet, perfect for the stage.
Perfect for the stage.
We find each other between,
Acts. Chapters. And curtain calls.
Entangled in feigned spontaneity,
Falling in love. Growing old.
Then Burning them down.
Perfectly disjointed in our connected chaos, our troupe coordinated in utter disarray.
Reciting reading lists that pass as conversation.
Rehashing the words of the dead, resurrecting their fire for the living – Unable,
To hear the whispers of those who are already living.
Contorting, reporting. To the skeleton kings who sit in silence..
On thrones. Alone. They can no longer speak.
And yet they rule.
Policed by these rules and laws forced upon our heads.
The viciously protected sanctity of poisoned justice constrains us,
Within the boundaries of the stage.
Puppets are we?
Seated in the midst of the grey,
Lifting my clenched fist just beneath my eyes.
Unfurling my fingers,
Staring at my palm.
There are no strings. I feel no strings.
Then why am I performing?