The Theatre

Forgive me — I came to the theatre alone, though I had once promised myself I would not. I had even written it down, somewhere, how I would attend — composed, detached, notebook in hand. But I forgot the journal, forgot the notes, forgot the rules I’d set for myself.

I sat among the masses, front row, my eyes wide open as the light illuminated the stage. A drink or two rested by my side. The exit door was always open — I knew it. I didn’t need to be told.

The play began. The actors emerged, each one donning a face more vivid than the last — masks brighter than anything else I had ever seen. I was hooked to the play. The ones in front, centre stage, played too hard. They competed with each other, desperate for applause. The ones behind — quieter, disciplined — added to the drama. Supporting acts, switching masks when the scene demanded, slipping in and out of personas so fluidly I sometimes forgot who was who.

Sometimes I fixated on one face too long, tracing its expressions until I lost sight of all the others. Sometimes the words cut deep enough to carve themselves into me — leaving vibrations, invisible but felt.

Somewhere along the play, I lost the sense of time. I cried when they asked for tears. I laughed when the cue demanded laughter. The sound grew louder, the lights harsher, and the illusion began to hum inside my skull. My temples throbbed; my heart stumbled in rhythm with the stage drums. I was dizzy, drunk on the spectacle, yet I stayed. We all stayed — as if bound by a silent pact.

Somewhere between acts, I forgot that the door was still open. That I could always leave. That it was, after all, only a play.