i walked past a couple sitting on the steps of the small theater down the street from my house. the girl was sad, not quite crying but in that space where your heart wants to cry, but your brain just won't let you. all i could see of the boy was the back of his head, nodding slowly, consoling. it occured to me they could quite possible be rehearsing for a show. this is la afterall and generally most public scenes of emotion are carefully orchestrated performances of one sort or another. but something about it seemed real, my heart ached for the girl -was he leaving, was she, what had happened? the very act of my watching made their rehearsal real, it was now a performance, whether thay wanted it or not. i was the unwilling audience to a play and i'd missed the opening act.
a thousand thoughts flooded my head in a single second: how much of life is a play? how aware are we of the audience surrounding us at every turn? so much of life is putting on the costume, setting up the scenery preparing to live the script we feel we've been handed. but when does the rehearsal end and the show begin - and what if we don't feel like acting anymore?
i continued walking and let the questions melt away. the sunshine warmed my face, the smell of neighbor's lawns intoxicated me, and i let go. let go of the fears, let go of the script, walked off the stage and into the world. the invisible audience cheered my exit.
my poor metaphorical abilities led me here, to what the mass media calls the blogoshpere. i cringe writing that. will anyone read this? do i want them to? will my over-the-top ramblings seem only pretentious drivel to friends who've hear my stories a thousand times over? meh, it's quite possible. but i've been told i live too much in my own head. I need to get some of it out. this is me attempting to release the beast. wish me luck