So Here I Am...Wait...Wait For It...Damn...Im Still Breathing...
SMILE
this is life. this is what everyone spends their time devoted to. this is our existence and what we are. the problem is, no one is truly who they say they are. welcome to life. leave your shoes at the door.
the curtain opens. another thing to cry over. another page to read and smile at the fact that youre the star. but quiet...the first act is beginning.
a boy sits onstage. his arms are grabbing his stomach. well...whats left of his arms. you realize this must be a comedy, because if you look close enough, you notice none of his skin is visible...or at least the outside. you can see nothing but thousands and thousands of cuts worn like sleeves covering his arms. again, you laugh as you see how tormented he is. there are bloody chunks of skin and hair from his arms soaking onto his bed. he whispers a thankyou for the red sheets he's been given for this particular performance. then the punchline hits. the crowd erupts in laughter! he pulls his arms from his stomach and an eruption of red, red blood spills everywhere. it soaks the page he was trying to write on. (he slowly curses the air because he knows it will be thrown away before its read, now that it has been painted with such colors) the laughter and applause from the audience doesnt sound as if it will be stopping anytime soon. the play's hero then staggers across the hall to the room next to his, and throws open every cupboard in search of anything to eat away the inside of his stomach he can't seem to reach with his three inch blade. he finds a package of Zoloft. only a sample package, but to the joy of his audience, he decides to sample each pill in the package. "maybe just one more will be it? will be the last? lets play this game out to the end...its only Act One."
A short scene change and the boy is back on his redder than before bedsheets. he smiles to himself as he looks down at his artwork. his masterpiece.
blood is still pouring from his arms and he tries to move his arms only to have more explosions shoot from his wounds onto his pillows. his soft pillows. oh how he would love to sleep. to lay down and count how many cuts reside in his flesh, and how many pills he took without shaking. the audience begins to grow restless as the scene looks just like any other movie. the only difference being the actor is still alive. how many plays have they reviewed while the victim lies looking just like that? the only part they dont understand...is how the fuck is still breathing...?
he suddenly opens his eyes wider and you can see his thoughts pouring faster than his life. he pulls himself to his feet and staggers toward the stairs. he nears his parents doorway and screams "i need a hospital"
his mother and father awake calling him and asking what's wrong. they can tell hes crying and swallowing his own blood, saliva, and snot in his pathetic whimpers. they come close and both try to hold him to calm him down enough for even a few audible words.
"no!! dont touch me! dont touch me!!" he screams and startles the audience. they retreat and bring him onto their bed, convered by the darkness of the 6 o'clock night. all the actor can get out...is "i need a hospital..."
they ask him if its for psychological reasons and what happened. they say its ok without knowing why the hell it wouldnt be. they finally ask "what happened?" and "why do you need a hospital?"
"turn on the lights"
the audience is on the edge of thei seats. this is the climax. oh how everyone loves the intensity of it all. this is what makes seats sell the first week its open.
his mother screams
his father jumps back and covers his mouth, too busy suddenly sobbing to say anything.
they both let out sobs that feel too real for the audience to laugh at seriously, so they only chuckle at this point in time.
both parents wrap thei arms around him, no longer ruled by the boy's fear of bloodstains. he didnt want them to be as bloody as he. after all, nothing happened to them. this message the audience can properly laugh at.
they throw an old white (of all colors) shirt over him and rush him to the emergency room. the crowd blinks in disbelief.
"there has never been a worse ending!" someone screams from the fourth row back, twelve seats to the right.
"why didnt he finish?" another voice in the far right of the eighth row echoes.
there is silence in the auditorium. all you can hear from outside is the feint sound of ambulences dying away. a van speeding 90 away from the theater rings in the audience's ear.
the lights come on.
the line for refunds is on the first floor to the left, extending out to the street.
but the real question in all of this...is why isnt the audience laughing? they got what they wanted. they got what they paid for. there would have been no show that night if they werent there. so why are they no longer as happy once its over? why is this suddenly a bad thing?
the actor has performed similar plays for different audiences, but all the same ending, he walked home, alone, to open friday night at 6:00. did this audience ever claim to react differently? to laugh at different times? to even be simpathetic at the ending?
there is talk of a sequel. the audience would surely return again another night to watch the ending and laugh harder this time, but he knows to never perform for the same crowd. early in his carrer he made this mistake, and just made the play worse than the original. no. no sequel.
although the audience waits outside. they stare from street corners and ask everyone where the actor has gone. they want to get to know him. for the first time. to truly understand him and not just pretend to so the play will move along smoothly.
this actor adores his audience. without them, he would be out of a carrer. no job. no life. but he realized its the image of the audience hes truly in love with. hes not in love with the individual who keeps blowing his nose in the sixth row back nine from the left. no, its just the vast amount of faces he loves. what he believed throughout the whole play to be his admirers. the image he created of the perfect theater attendee. is quiet while the actor speaks. laughs on cue. listens. lets the applause always last twenty seconds too long. and most importantly...doesnt get up and walk out during the performance. doesnt walk out the doors to the theater across the street to watch another actor. to see his work and say its so much better. the difference that makes this act so different from the other theaters around, is that its the only play in which the actors and actresses wear no masks. none at all. they show their faces to the crowd and are not ashamed of anything that makes up their character. unlike the other plays that people attend for a cheaper price and faster dialogue that skips straight to thei favorite scenes. no waiting. no time to endure. just snapshot. snapshot. snapshot. all clasp hands and bow. "thankyuou! thankyou all!"
well the hero walks slowly and avoids eyes contact with every member of his beloved following and tries to continue walking to forget the play he just performed. because seeing an actor offstage, is realizing the whole play was an act. every word was written and made to sound true to the actor. his emotions were as twisted as the remnant of his arms while so many people threw flowers and rotted fruit.
but again,
i say smile.
because this is what you wanted.
this was what you expected when you began reading this. possibly not the exact words, but you know the story.
lifting his head high he scratches a tear back from his cheek. wondering himself if he should wear a mask as well.
but the answer to that question is no. because his performance is the difference between his and other theaters.
his is real
no other cast will write this.
every cheap thrill only last until the alcohol is pissed out.
so the audience continues to wander, asking why the actor refuses to show his face or give the grace of an autograph. they wonder why. he only laughs louder.
because it should be plain to everyone, attendees or street folk, why he looks to the ground.
he has people. he spends time with them here and there. but never as much time performing as this long drama tonight. never has he spent more time than this.
he could have ended his carrer tonight. never performed again. never acted for another audience, but no. this wasnt the one. it wasnt the opening night that will give him enough to live out the rest of his days with. hes not famous from this one. a week later the audience will forget they even still have a torn ticket stub in their wallet.
but thats the beauty of it all. the real punchline no one guesses.
that the actor lives on.
against his own wishes at times, he continues to perform. he still plays his role from his heart. his heart that is so worn from pumping so much blood and life through his being. his tired bony corpse.
so this was his opening act. cut short by his weakness. but there wouldnt have been an Act Two if he'd cut it any closer either. so no matter if he lived or not, the audience would be dissatisfied. theres no way to keep them laughing all the time, no matter what they promise you, no one will ever love every second of your show. trust me. i know this.
because i am the actor.
trust me,
as much as i can't trust you,
when i say all i ever wanted to do was perform the best damn play any audience has ever experienced. sorry i failed. sorry it wasnt good enough. sorry you werent cast as the three inch knife.
so this ends as every play would. the bowing out, and the fading in of the lights. as the curtains close and faces blur into focus, everyone asks their neighbor if they enjoyed it. if they laughed. if it was worth what they payed to get in here. if it was worth the time it took to act out.
the saddest thing is, the actor will never know those answers. if asked himself, he wouldnt know anything. he's behind stage during all of the immediate feedback, and is too busy to think it over himself.
but i guess this is how a performance is supposed to play out. it cant last forever. the audience will always only stay so long. but try and return a week later for a refund or second ticket to watch what happens next.
the actor waves goodbye to his beloved audience. and the applause never rises higher than small pity claps.
the curtain closes
the lights dim
the end
this is life. this is what everyone spends their time devoted to. this is our existence and what we are. the problem is, no one is truly who they say they are. welcome to life. leave your shoes at the door.
the curtain opens. another thing to cry over. another page to read and smile at the fact that youre the star. but quiet...the first act is beginning.
a boy sits onstage. his arms are grabbing his stomach. well...whats left of his arms. you realize this must be a comedy, because if you look close enough, you notice none of his skin is visible...or at least the outside. you can see nothing but thousands and thousands of cuts worn like sleeves covering his arms. again, you laugh as you see how tormented he is. there are bloody chunks of skin and hair from his arms soaking onto his bed. he whispers a thankyou for the red sheets he's been given for this particular performance. then the punchline hits. the crowd erupts in laughter! he pulls his arms from his stomach and an eruption of red, red blood spills everywhere. it soaks the page he was trying to write on. (he slowly curses the air because he knows it will be thrown away before its read, now that it has been painted with such colors) the laughter and applause from the audience doesnt sound as if it will be stopping anytime soon. the play's hero then staggers across the hall to the room next to his, and throws open every cupboard in search of anything to eat away the inside of his stomach he can't seem to reach with his three inch blade. he finds a package of Zoloft. only a sample package, but to the joy of his audience, he decides to sample each pill in the package. "maybe just one more will be it? will be the last? lets play this game out to the end...its only Act One."
A short scene change and the boy is back on his redder than before bedsheets. he smiles to himself as he looks down at his artwork. his masterpiece.
blood is still pouring from his arms and he tries to move his arms only to have more explosions shoot from his wounds onto his pillows. his soft pillows. oh how he would love to sleep. to lay down and count how many cuts reside in his flesh, and how many pills he took without shaking. the audience begins to grow restless as the scene looks just like any other movie. the only difference being the actor is still alive. how many plays have they reviewed while the victim lies looking just like that? the only part they dont understand...is how the fuck is still breathing...?
he suddenly opens his eyes wider and you can see his thoughts pouring faster than his life. he pulls himself to his feet and staggers toward the stairs. he nears his parents doorway and screams "i need a hospital"
his mother and father awake calling him and asking what's wrong. they can tell hes crying and swallowing his own blood, saliva, and snot in his pathetic whimpers. they come close and both try to hold him to calm him down enough for even a few audible words.
"no!! dont touch me! dont touch me!!" he screams and startles the audience. they retreat and bring him onto their bed, convered by the darkness of the 6 o'clock night. all the actor can get out...is "i need a hospital..."
they ask him if its for psychological reasons and what happened. they say its ok without knowing why the hell it wouldnt be. they finally ask "what happened?" and "why do you need a hospital?"
"turn on the lights"
the audience is on the edge of thei seats. this is the climax. oh how everyone loves the intensity of it all. this is what makes seats sell the first week its open.
his mother screams
his father jumps back and covers his mouth, too busy suddenly sobbing to say anything.
they both let out sobs that feel too real for the audience to laugh at seriously, so they only chuckle at this point in time.
both parents wrap thei arms around him, no longer ruled by the boy's fear of bloodstains. he didnt want them to be as bloody as he. after all, nothing happened to them. this message the audience can properly laugh at.
they throw an old white (of all colors) shirt over him and rush him to the emergency room. the crowd blinks in disbelief.
"there has never been a worse ending!" someone screams from the fourth row back, twelve seats to the right.
"why didnt he finish?" another voice in the far right of the eighth row echoes.
there is silence in the auditorium. all you can hear from outside is the feint sound of ambulences dying away. a van speeding 90 away from the theater rings in the audience's ear.
the lights come on.
the line for refunds is on the first floor to the left, extending out to the street.
but the real question in all of this...is why isnt the audience laughing? they got what they wanted. they got what they paid for. there would have been no show that night if they werent there. so why are they no longer as happy once its over? why is this suddenly a bad thing?
the actor has performed similar plays for different audiences, but all the same ending, he walked home, alone, to open friday night at 6:00. did this audience ever claim to react differently? to laugh at different times? to even be simpathetic at the ending?
there is talk of a sequel. the audience would surely return again another night to watch the ending and laugh harder this time, but he knows to never perform for the same crowd. early in his carrer he made this mistake, and just made the play worse than the original. no. no sequel.
although the audience waits outside. they stare from street corners and ask everyone where the actor has gone. they want to get to know him. for the first time. to truly understand him and not just pretend to so the play will move along smoothly.
this actor adores his audience. without them, he would be out of a carrer. no job. no life. but he realized its the image of the audience hes truly in love with. hes not in love with the individual who keeps blowing his nose in the sixth row back nine from the left. no, its just the vast amount of faces he loves. what he believed throughout the whole play to be his admirers. the image he created of the perfect theater attendee. is quiet while the actor speaks. laughs on cue. listens. lets the applause always last twenty seconds too long. and most importantly...doesnt get up and walk out during the performance. doesnt walk out the doors to the theater across the street to watch another actor. to see his work and say its so much better. the difference that makes this act so different from the other theaters around, is that its the only play in which the actors and actresses wear no masks. none at all. they show their faces to the crowd and are not ashamed of anything that makes up their character. unlike the other plays that people attend for a cheaper price and faster dialogue that skips straight to thei favorite scenes. no waiting. no time to endure. just snapshot. snapshot. snapshot. all clasp hands and bow. "thankyuou! thankyou all!"
well the hero walks slowly and avoids eyes contact with every member of his beloved following and tries to continue walking to forget the play he just performed. because seeing an actor offstage, is realizing the whole play was an act. every word was written and made to sound true to the actor. his emotions were as twisted as the remnant of his arms while so many people threw flowers and rotted fruit.
but again,
i say smile.
because this is what you wanted.
this was what you expected when you began reading this. possibly not the exact words, but you know the story.
lifting his head high he scratches a tear back from his cheek. wondering himself if he should wear a mask as well.
but the answer to that question is no. because his performance is the difference between his and other theaters.
his is real
no other cast will write this.
every cheap thrill only last until the alcohol is pissed out.
so the audience continues to wander, asking why the actor refuses to show his face or give the grace of an autograph. they wonder why. he only laughs louder.
because it should be plain to everyone, attendees or street folk, why he looks to the ground.
he has people. he spends time with them here and there. but never as much time performing as this long drama tonight. never has he spent more time than this.
he could have ended his carrer tonight. never performed again. never acted for another audience, but no. this wasnt the one. it wasnt the opening night that will give him enough to live out the rest of his days with. hes not famous from this one. a week later the audience will forget they even still have a torn ticket stub in their wallet.
but thats the beauty of it all. the real punchline no one guesses.
that the actor lives on.
against his own wishes at times, he continues to perform. he still plays his role from his heart. his heart that is so worn from pumping so much blood and life through his being. his tired bony corpse.
so this was his opening act. cut short by his weakness. but there wouldnt have been an Act Two if he'd cut it any closer either. so no matter if he lived or not, the audience would be dissatisfied. theres no way to keep them laughing all the time, no matter what they promise you, no one will ever love every second of your show. trust me. i know this.
because i am the actor.
trust me,
as much as i can't trust you,
when i say all i ever wanted to do was perform the best damn play any audience has ever experienced. sorry i failed. sorry it wasnt good enough. sorry you werent cast as the three inch knife.
so this ends as every play would. the bowing out, and the fading in of the lights. as the curtains close and faces blur into focus, everyone asks their neighbor if they enjoyed it. if they laughed. if it was worth what they payed to get in here. if it was worth the time it took to act out.
the saddest thing is, the actor will never know those answers. if asked himself, he wouldnt know anything. he's behind stage during all of the immediate feedback, and is too busy to think it over himself.
but i guess this is how a performance is supposed to play out. it cant last forever. the audience will always only stay so long. but try and return a week later for a refund or second ticket to watch what happens next.
the actor waves goodbye to his beloved audience. and the applause never rises higher than small pity claps.
the curtain closes
the lights dim
the end