I can be described as 3 stages: the first is blinding, the floorboards reflecting off the cold, white light. Every inch of the stage is visible—you can see the pieces of masking tape on the ground for the various set designs, the layers of paint flaking off the back wall. Every wire of the lights, the sound, the mics, and the production is glowing, in an almost ironic manner, laughing at me as I try and cover them up—please, don’t look! Nothing here! There is no organization to the show—a repeated cycle of beginning to perform and becoming too terrified to stop. 

The wings are completely transparent; the curtains hide nothing and all the props are plainly visible. Each time I rush on and off stage—changing costumes, reapplying makeup—the audience follows, expressionless. From their seats, I see them, every single one, watching as I stumble through my rehearsed speech, mixing up the movements that follow—God, sorry, it has been a rough day! They stare blankly at me, as if they are expecting more.

It’s a bad comedy set with no end, no punchline, no beginning—it seems as if all of time has been compressed to my figure running around the stage, driving itself crazy like a caged animal in spotlight heat, trying to gather any sort of reaction from the blank audience in front. I remain motionless, and there is nothing; I display the most dazzling performance, and there is nothing; I scream, I whine, I cry, I moan, I laugh, yet there is nothing.

What more can I give? The stage is now slick with tears and sweat; my body is giving up. I can feel it—limbs faltering, disobeying; my speech minimized to a whisper; exhaustion taking over as I mimic a broken record. Each syllable that leaves my lips comes out in the same tune: don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go—it lingers in my panting, seeping out like the fumes from a gasoline flame, pooling at the feet of the audience.

Even a performance like this must end eventually, and it does with a sudden drop; like the guillotine, sharp and ruthless, my body collapses and slams onto the floor. When I wake, they are there, and we begin again.

The second stage is a full, dramatic theatrical production. The spotlight is centre stage, and my body is glowing, haloed from the overwhelming experience. From the audience, it must look as if I am ascending to the Heavens, and from my perspective, it is the headlights of a car on a foggy night. I don’t tell them to dim the lights, and continue my practiced performance. My arms stretch and I smile, allowing those sweet giggles to fall out of my mouth so naturally that we all forget there is a stage to begin with. 

This time, the audience engages with me, both laughing at my comedic beats and weeping at the heartwarming moments. The performance is never too long-lasting: an hour, a day, perhaps a week. My heart flies as I hear the cheers and applause. Everything runs smoothly; there are no kinks, no trouble, and the whole show falls perfectly into place. During my closing bows, there is a nostalgic feeling—this is why I perform. To feel their festering desire, to feel their affection —that is why I perform. 

I am given flowers and cards. People are lining up for my autograph and to take a photo. A news outlet wants to interview me. This is the pinnacle of success, and I relish the pure attention I am receiving, licking every drop off and soaking in the taste. It is citrus, bright and golden underneath your tongue. It is love in its most cataclysmic form. 

When they leave, I pass out feedback forms with a pleasant, cheerful smile planted on my face. I take careful notes on what they liked best and what they liked least. Tell me, would you recommend this act to a friend? Would you come by again? What about this show would you like to see changed? Was there anything you particularly enjoyed? Leave the details down below.

The performance always ends with me waving the last few members goodnight, and as I slip behind the wings, after all that excitement,

I

crumble to my knees,

met with

darkness.

The air is frozen.

No sound,

except for my breathing

in and out and in,

each breath dragging its feet against the floor.

I close my eyes

and open them 

and close them 

and open them 

and close them 

and open—

and cannot tell which is which.

Four limbs now. I crawl. Reduced to my simplest form:

crude, animalistic. 

I don’t look into the dressing room mirror.

The walls have slits

where the feedback forms come swimming through,

Get them now! Hot off the press. 

Most are not even filled in,  blank blank blank blank blank

NO—TELL ME WHAT YOU LIKE BEST ABOUT ME PLEASE.

In my own notebook after the show

 I take calculated measurements of my perceived 

affection.

AFFECTION!

DESIREMENT!

HOW MUCH DID THE AUDIENCE LIKE ME TODAY?

09/21/25, the audience’s laughter on Line 23 was 84.43 dB. 

This is a 0.9% decrease from 09/10/25. Consider an adjustment.

09/29/25, feedback form #435 suggests I include a spotlight, center stage, on Act 3, Scene 4, during my monologue. Consider an adjustment.

Consider an adjustment.

Consider an adjustment. Consider an adjustment.

Consider changing your entire personality at every moment to perfectly complement everyone else’s personality, to forget who you are and what you are capable of, to absorb characteristics on a whim, you are not you and you are a billion different people written in one incomprehensible story, you are nothing and everything and perhaps this is why 

you

are 

always

chasing

something you cannot 

grasp

because you are not solid of a person, you are a fragment of a whole and yet wholes of a whole. the self forgets and the self wants and the self is unable to understand what the self truly is, the layer of masks so thick, the self is unable

the self is unable to be an individual

the self is unstable, cannot be an individual

the self forgets and the self wants.

the self mimics.

Consider an adjustment.

END OF FINALE