If All the Worlds a Stage

If all the world's a stage, and we are merely players, then I am center stage, spot light blinding and sweating, suffocating and wrestling with my own choices that control the outcome of my entire story, a tragicomedy with a million endings and an artless playwright

Every decision is a string leading me down a new path

Every decision is a chain dragging me towards a new path

Every decision is a chain dragging me in opposite directions all at once

My Dad and Stepmom are in the middle front row seats, and they are laughing, throwing tomatoes that drip and ooze college, advice, and splatter under their projected pressure of success

They do not see that the added dodging, blocking, and blinding redness makes it hard to remember my memorized passive daughter lines and all my perfect characterization is fading

They vicariously, maliciously are living their success through me, masked in bitter appraisal and cheerful disappointment and they cheer as the chains are slowly pulling a part my passions

Their eyes only see momentum

Only see speed

Only see motivation

Only see neat strings

Only see good grades

Only see momentum

They don’t see that my momentum, speed, good grades and neat strings are launching me to  nothing fast, a brick wall illusively painted with a tunnel leading towards my future, realistic until it’s put into perspective

This stage is illusive, always white and empty with no set pieces, no characters, until I have arrived, when I look in my script to know tomorrows lines the pages are hauntingly blank, and I can only hold onto and overanalyze what was previous said and done, to try and predict the next scene

but most the time I am an unprepared improvisor awkwardly spewing out lines without any connection to my true emotions

I desperately wanted to be rooted into this theatrical reality, but everything changes

the platforms, the lights, the sounds

and before I know it night comes and I am forced to ignore the shadowy figures blatantly confusing, and sporadic, changing and rearranging the next day

Because the audience doesn't want reruns, they want progressive drama, something to make their blood churn, to conduct a symphony out of their heart strings, all at the dispose of my sanity

How do you measure days, when all feel the same, the ground plan may have variations but it's just reconfigurations of the same set pieces, same backdrop with different paintings on top, broken days adapted to allude to a contemporary reality

The only thing that truly changes is the characters that make their entrances and exits off and on my stage, actors and actresses that project and develop their own flaws into skillful monologues, wearing their personality like costumes, and I a seamstress, just trying to make sure everything fits

ACT 1 SCENE 1

The narrator enters center stage, and announces the arrival of the character “First Love”

His face is a broken record, easy for my lips to slide into and get stuck on, his voice is silent and always repeating the same cacophonous “I’m sorry’s”

His arms are headphones, and when we hug we make pockets for him to get tangled around me, it's not frustrating until I need to use my body for something other then holding him together

His brain is ridden, addicted to playing the same old song, because he would rather do the same thing over and over, then risk listening something to new and hating it

He is afraid of asking for help, he is afraid of his own potential, would rather be a broken record, then produce his own music, would rather play other peoples songs, then sing his own off-tune

He is afraid to fix himself, because if he is broken at least his content is original, his mishaps, depressing flat notes, and irritating static sharp,  they make his songs different from the original composer, even if it is for its imperfections

His flaws become the soundtrack to every interaction between him and his parents, a white noise that cancels out any appraisal into a pity theme song

I so desperately want to be the metrognome to keep him on beat

To clip onto him like a tuner, and make sure everything is on pitch

I want to untangle his headphone thoughts, so maybe he can learn to listen to himself

I want to blast my love for him like an 1000 watt QSC series speaker set, cause my heart is a rock band, and my brain is an electric guitar, piercing solos and riffs, that need to reach him

But if my love for him is a rock band, his love for me is classical, pianissimo and adagio, putting the rest of himself to sleep, an eternal hibernation that needs something more intense

I cannot keep him loving me without changing the entire composition of myself, I cannot compose my body into open legs, and crescendo symphonies,

His need’s volume is measured in decibels,his sound is air pressure that keeps on increasing, and it’s giving me vertigo headaches

I stayed

Our love a recital I would never miss, from practice room to performance, from lines and notes to strums and fingers pressing and notes harmonizing, even when are opposing views were a barber quartet built for clashing dischorde

When the differences of are genres were what drew us together, your complexities, your dolce and lighthearted rhythms, and your heavy movement and fortissimo dramatics

Have turned into a fermata that even the composer would say is overdone

I wanted to conduct your life, but love is a duet not a conductor trying to pull symphonies out of depression, love is not codependency

Scene 1 ends and First Love exits the stage

She is left deaf, her first love deafening her confidence in herself

ACT 1 SCENE 2

The narrator enters center stage and announces the character “Best Friend’s Ex”

This love was raised from bourbon chocolate milkshakes, a combination that I didn’t think was possible until its drunken kisses were given to me through a straw

I was never allowed to drink our love out of a glass, because that’s too fast, the words would stain and freeze my teeth till they were frozen, chattering and unbearable for my brain to comprehend

This love is cold water, refreshing, splashing and stored at back of my throat, edging towards the top of my mouth, because if it were too spill out when I spoke about us, the car we sinned in would be filled, and we would forced to deal with this ocean of a reality

Your head is a tall glass of everything and anything, a suicide of all my favorite flavors, when I kiss you I taste something different every time, a backwash of orange bubbly toothache, on the front of my tongue a peppery raspberry wine tenderly washing over me, but baby I love the inconsistency

Your arms are a devastating tsunami and they consume me every time we hug, your waves break and crash over my back and most the time I never want to come up for air

Your heart is sweet tea, flavor without carbonation, no burning sensation to run down my throat, just smooth addictive, and I always seem to be calling the waiter for a refill

Sometimes I try to replace you with unsweet, but no matter how much sugar I add to this glass I call my life, it either ends up overly sugary and cheery or bitter and cold and leaving untouched

I keep on using the word love to describe my gravitation towards you, my appreciation for the small sips of your time you give to me, even if its not reciprocated

I use the word love, but love is straight bottle hard whisky compared to how you feel towards me, you’re interest in me is a flute of celebratory champagne, only occasional and consuming your brain with air bubbles of nothing

Consuming me only about as much as a glass of wine a week after a long 12-hour shift

This love is not cold water, because water is something you need, and I know very well you could you could abstain from these escapist substances that I pour into you, and your life is a full pitcher, I know because most the time whatever I try to give you more than just shots of my personality, It just pours out the sides of you slipping out of your mind, not dense enough to sink to the bottom of your consciousness, only ever skimming the surface of your thoughts, especially when you’re thirsty

How could I ever give you the entirety of myself, If there’s one me and my best friend have in common it’s that we do not give ourselves fully to anyone unless they want to only have us, Not just sips, not just swallows, but the whole bottle mislabels and misprints, calories and warning signs, a lid that can close at any time, and depths more than anyone could fully hold in their pitcher lives.

I know my best friend is mercury poisoning any thoughts of me into an alternate reality, Parts of you are still mercury, she courses through your veins

Mercury has a low freezing point,and it doesn’t take you long now to become cold and freeze, especially when I will never be able to separate myself from poison, I will always be a mixed drink of the people in my life a highball of mercury and whisky, straight up a different thing altogether, because I am not my components, I am not my free pour quality, double jigger quirks, and though you may taste poison in my backwash, doesn’t mean I am not refreshing

But it also doesn’t mean I expect you to ignore the complexities of my flavor, I just expect that you understand it’s painful to never be a fully independent original entity, To never be just me, but to always be “ex’s best friend”

I shouldn’t want someone who only sees me as a complex, only sees what we could be as a fire to ignite under this already put out situation

Love is not unrequited, love is a milkshake with two straws, two people sipping and enjoying the other in smiles of time, it is a mutual sacrifice to be judged and to take risks

Obviously I was not a risk worth taking

Scene Ends

Best Friends Ex is left unsure to leave the scene and stands among the shadows always ready to be an alternate if Girl needs a shoulder to lean on

Girl is left diabetic, unable to keep a steady feeling, stuck on sugar highs and groggy lows