Blaise Dupont, Year 12
Who is he who gazes at me so solemnly through the reflective glass? Why does his stare strip me so bare? I stare back, competitively. My eyes begin to sizzle, he is really good. I blink away only to be welcomed back by his unbroken eye-contact. I feel tense. Why does he stare so abrasively? Why does he peer so judgmentally at my decrepit figure? Have I become so miserable that I now perform an act of melancholy to this stranger in front of me? Does he enjoy the tragic input of my presence? I cannot say, for an actor does not only perform for an audience, but for his heart. Mine is wounded, bleeding pitifully and weeping over a vitality long gone. More importantly, it burns. My heart is incinerated by the spotlight. A place of warmth and comfort has been replaced with an overbearing heat of existence. The very kinetics of my act, put on display for the eyes that gaze through me. I hurt, knowing that my performance will never be enough to deceive him. He who shapes the curves of my skin with his eyes. He who peels my skin with daring glares. He who tears my ego apart mercilessly.
Everyday, I stumbled across the stage meekly, inadequately. For I do not deserve the stage. The audience needs authentic emotions, I can only dream of ever accurately expressing my sentimental demeanor in a way they will find entertaining. I try anyway. He mocks me. He mirrors my gestures, as though to demonstrate my own ridicule to myself. I know. I know what I look like. I know the sort of tapestry that I paint when engaging with my audience. I hope terribly that they enjoy it. Their amusement is my purpose. He laughs at me. He points fingers with his eyes, darting at me like the menace that he is to my peace. Theatrical tranquillity that I once indulged in has turned me into a quiet maniac, willing to stretch my smile till my cheeks tear. I just want people to like me.
Is it so much to ask? Appreciation? Affection? Love? My, am I that greedy? I question, he gives me a puzzled look, then begins to cry. Somehow, tears have rolled down my cheeks, too. The char that has darkened my heart chills me. The thrill for masking is what is now grilling my soul. He who gazes with honesty, has unveiled my tangled persona. The peril that arises from my every step onstage has wretched me, coiled me in my own woe. I grieve over my reflection. The truth lies beyond me. I lie beyond repair. I now recognise him. He understands. He tells the truth, he is my portrait. Supposedly. However, my fantasy-built journey has walked me further and further away from him, till his memory was lost. He, just like me, is but a child of neglect, dissatisfaction. He, just like me, aches with the crushing desire for love, recognition. He, just like me, craves the attention of an audience whose greed left him hollow, shallow. To step onstage is to take a risk. The risk of being seen. Our dream to be the star, the most beloved, has come with the price of self-love. A child having endured the poverty of love, resides with constant starvation for a sentiment of cherish.
I cannot alter my past, return to my child-self his rightful emotional necessities. However, I can gift him the verity of my heart and the freedom of my soul. I will not make him empty promises about our performance and will vow to genuineness. For I have kept my human empathy, I can now allow myself to feel for him. Perhaps someday, I may begin to feel for myself. Perhaps someday, I may display my truth, and perform an act that will give bliss to its audience. Perhaps someday, the rays of the spotlight will cool me down and allow me to flourish, and my ego to blossom with a newfound sense of self.
Perhaps someday, what was once a dream will become a reality without the sacrifice of my own individuality.
