I’m used to being ignored. Well. Not _ignored, _per se, but more like. Faded? A background structure. Most people live loudly, in motion. I live frozen; still, in the quiet in-between of other people's lives. I wonder if I really exists, sometimes. If I’m really, there, when I’m not acting, when I’m not on the stage. I’m good at that. Thinking about things that don’t matter. I think I exist. I’d like to think so, just because there are some tangible things that prove I’m real. But I think that I sort of freeze maybe, when people aren’t around. That whole _if a tree falls in a forest but no one’s around does it really make a sound? _thing. I’m not there. And then the stage lights come on and the crowd cheers and I exist in color again. In movement, and in voice. And then the lights go off and the crowd leaves and then it’s back to gray. Frozen me. That’s how it seems to work. No one really pays attention to me any longer than necessary in real life. When I’m not a character, a role, an emotion. When I’m not on stage baring everything I have for everyone watching- it’s like I’m not there. That’s why I act. That’s why I climb the stage and shout and sing and cry and do whatever it takes to be alive again, to be real flesh and blood. The shouts of praise from the crowd become the blood in my veins and the stage keeps my heart beating. It is simple. It is life. I resist going home. I don’t like home. I’m not alive at home. I’m not real at home. I get ready for work —for living— in the morning. I avoid the mirror as I brush my teeth and I don’t linger near dark windows. Even without a reflective surface, I can still see it. I can still see the worms eating through my skin and the sallow, grey tinge on my body and the still, lifeless rock in my chest that screams; I am not alive I am not alive I am not alive— And then I get to work. I come to life. My skin is fresh and my heart is beating. I feel the stage everywhere now. Standing at a crosswalk- are those pedestrians? Are they? Is it the crowd? Are they waiting for me? What’s my line? What am I performing? I stare at the stoplight. Why is it green? Aren’t they supposed to be yellow? White? Where is my crowd? Where is my blood? Where is my body? The stillness of my lungs has begun chasing me on the stage. Even as the crowd cheers a creeping cold spreads from my chest, out my arms, to my fingertips. I smile wider. Breathe, breathe breathe. Line. Performance. Light. Life. Breathe. Performance. Life. I’ve taped magazine pages over my mirrors. The crowds are so much nicer than my face. I brush my teeth with a smile now. My face hurts. It passes when I’m on stage. My car is gone. I don’t need it. The people who mill about on sidewalks remind me of the people who cheer for me. I perform for them. Breathe. Performance. Life. I feel alive all the time now. I see the crowd everywhere. I see the lights everywhere. I breathe. I breathe. I breathe. I breathe— I breathe? I breathe? It all feels the same. It all looks the same. Am I home? Am I on the stage? What is my line? Where is my performance? Where is my crowd? Where is my crowd? Where is my crowd? Where is my crowd? Where is my crowd? Hello? Is anybody there? Can you tell me my line, please? I need to keep performing. I need to feel alive again. Where is my heart? Where is my body? Has anyone seen my blood? Can someone tell me what to say? Can someone tell me what to do? I need to feel alive again. I need to perform again. I need to find the crowd. Where is the crowd? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? Where is the crowd?