Sometimes you feel that the focus of the universe is upon you and you are being watched. Even in the things you take power over, there are forces pressed against you. You cannot stop time, but the things that happen around you play out like an unstoppable force, You observe, but cannot stop it. What kind of show, then are you putting on for the rest of the universe?
Is there a higher being watching you? Are you the entertainment for another audience beyond our galactic borders or comprehension? It doesn't really matter if your answer is yes or no because you are here and your life is set in motion. Make it a good show.
" All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages."
-William Shakepeare (As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII)
Life In The Spotlight
I move in slow motion while the rest of the world exists in fast-forward.
I watch, unable to rewind or edit the mistakes that corrupt me.
Every now and then, I get caught in a flashback--
I am left blinking at the beginning of my problems,
my progress canceled by the reset of failure.
I am a constant character, evolving for better or worse
I experience action, suspense, horror, romance, comedy,
the occasional tear-jerker, a bit of psychological thriller, plenty of drama;
And for a special treat, a little sexual stimulation
to keep me on my feet—or back, as it were.
Forever stuck in play, on and on I go.
Sometimes I keep a steady schedule,
sometimes there is a commercial interruption, intermission,
or a completely unforeseen twist in the script.
Equipment malfunctions derail the smoothest performance.
The coming attractions remain quite vague for this show.
I search for spoilers only find teasers that heighten my angst.
My co-author works in secrecy, altering the pages I work hardest to perfect.
As Producer, Director, or Writer, I am limited by humanity.
Production is slow, the plot keeps shifting, the setting: one fractured marble.
All feats of daring, I perform without a stunt double.
I stumble and tumble and dodge—almost—every bullet;
Though I get battered, bruised, stabbed, or might break every bone--
I duck and roll, and weave intellectually as the explosions escalate.
I fly through the air and land on my face because:
My effects are not that special--
But my imaginative dimensions are incalculable.
I am static, round, simple, complex—a wonder of physical ingenuity.
I am the hero, the anti-hero, the sidekick, the villain,
the comic relief, the tragic protagonist, the willing antagonist,
the extra: uncredited.
I speak the lines of my heart and act out my soul.
I linger, silently—on the cutting room floor.
I open triumphant to a blockbuster roar,
The stage reviews turned out the lights.
The channel guide touts my award-winning heights.
I win, I lose.
An encroaching obsolescence bares me out over time;
Popularity wanes toward the final season’s decline.
I take a bow without exception—my choice unconsidered.
The curtain closes, and all transmissions suspend.