Sunday, May 31, 2009

And...CUT.

I spend more time in fiction than in reality. Fiction keeps me sane and despite of its obvious title, offers hope of somewhere better.
More than 70% of my day is spent reading or watching or drawing something or someone else. I'm liable myself to become fiction- I'd love that.

Reality is just too brash and fiction-like but without the adventure and chance to make things better. Its all just stage.
And I feel like I'm one of the only ones on it without a script.
There's hundreds watching, even more acting and... I don't know what to say.
I want to scream, "Stop this isn't what you want, this isn't who you are", but my mouths dry and there's a lump in my throat stifling every word.

So I freeze.

But maybe I'm not the only one frozen.
What about all those people out there rebelling.
Standing out.
I can see it now the lost little emo kid holding the knife to his wrist while he crys-
The scene goes on next line, next line, prompt-
And he doesnt want to do it but he feels like he's imploding-
And they act, its the finale scene of the act, and then the curtains go down, the crew finish and the director shouts-
The boys turns away and squints, the tears clinging to his eyelashes, the metal cold against his pearl-white skin and-

CUT.

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