I've been strangled free of desires for the most part of my early memories. From the earliest bouts of spotlight lust I was told to hush and retract. I've been believing and I've been trusting. That maybe this love- lust secret relationship with the stage is the beginning of my moral deterioration. That maybe the nail that sticks out will be hammered down and being that nail, never quite able to fit my fat ass in appropriate holes, never quite bending out of sight. I stick out so I can poke you.
I don't mean to hurt you. I'm just....
Inappropriate.
And this stage has scorned me. My whole life.
I don't want it anymore. After all, who wants to be owned?
I've been told that desires can consume people beyond recognition of themselves.
It seems to me that happiness is a deathly love, cheering at us while we waste away into it. Embracing tight while we slip away. After all, don't they say that pain makes you feel most alive?
My parents love me.
My parents love me at home. Where they can see me. Where they can protect me.
I grew so attached to those walls, I started talking to them. I sang to them and under that red roof was my biggest stage. In the kitchen, the walls glowed in admiration of my improvisation as I scrubbed the pots and dishes clean. The walls echoed my sweet sonata, a perfect choir in the bathroom, embraced in the mist of my bath water.
How can an introvert like me feel so trapped?
Because I belong here,
I should stay here,
within four walls
safe from my desires. Safe, from the world.
It seems, the stage never left me though. I've been living as if my fourth wall was invisible. I've been dying to put my life on the stage. I've been writing this play as if telling my own story to the universe. I argued with the wind, I quarreled with the light. This sweet soliloquy drenched pages and pages of literature as I lost myself in the wonders of other peoples experiences and fantasies.
I began where they ended, thousands of concluding pages announcing that my tale had just begun. Maybe I won.
