The stage of life

Life is theater a show, a web of fairytales we tell ourselves, call it what you will but fact is everyone’s pretending.

They pretend to know, while they doubt in silence. They pretend to work, while they rot in distraction. They pretend to be faithful, while their eyes betray them. They even pretend to themselves, pretending to want what they don’t want, pretending not to see what they see.

It is a theatre without curtain, without end. A grotesque performance where the mask grows into the skin, where the role devours the actor. In time, they forget they are pretending. They become the lie.

And when someone not asleep dares to call it out, the theatre turns violent. The actors snarl, the audience rages. To question the performance is to insult the performer, to expose the emptiness they have built their life upon. They will defend the mask with hatred, because they no longer know where it ends and their own face begins.

This is the perversity of human life, not that we play roles, but that we forget we are on a stage. We convince ourselves the performance is truth, that the script is sacred, that the applause is real.

But truth does not live in pretending. Truth begins when the mask slips, when the actor refuses his role, when the play collapses in scandal and silence.

Most cannot bear this. They need the theatre, the script, the applause. They cling to it, because outside the stage lies chaos, exile, nothingness.

Only the heretic knows, the theatre must burn and the stage must fall. Only from the ashes can life speak without a script.