The uncertainty of their course is what makes good stories. And I am currently observing one of them with great interest. Eagerly and fraught with tension, I wait, unaware of what comes next. I still think about my performance in this play when turbidity takes me captive all at once.
The independent narrative slips my hands – how outgrowing.
I strive for victory to free myself from this greasy burden. But I feel so sated by emotions that I don’t know where to put all of this emptiness. No light in sight at the end of any tunnel – I am blinded.
At times, to be is not an easy thing.
How much power am I willing to give the other players? A silent partner who assigns authority. A passive member of my own story. Somebody that attributes more relevance to these people than they deserve. Who do they think they are?
They, them, the others – how dare I?
But yet time reveals true colors. Transience won’t let me run away forever. So it is bound to happen that I slowly catch up with reality, shaking off this self-chosen inheritance for a new performance.
Being is beautiful if we allow us room for change.