The morning is spent putting on our faces, the afternoon drifts as we perform our parts, and the night falls over as we think which of the casts was actually us.
My footsteps were light as they approached the doorstep to my room, my very own sanctuary. The doorknob twists under my hand. The door clicks shut behind, leaving just me. My bag falls onto the floor, heavy with textbooks and the unspoken weight of the afternoon. The room is a stark contrast to the echoes that linger in my mind. A tension I did not know I was carrying leaves my shoulders. My face relaxes, dropping its forced choreography.
Behind the closed door, an ambient hum settles, yet the most raucous sound was the lingering noise of the day inside my head. It hovers over me as though it were the sky that shrouds my world. The clever responses I did not mean, the polite laughs at jokes that were hardly funny, the careful, maintained posture; all seem to dissolve in the deafening silence. I seem to have lost count of how many of me exist in a single body. How come nothing is easy when I find so many of me? Outside this very closed door, I find myself responsive, ready to take over, and composed like I'm following a script, but here, perhaps, there is no script to follow.
Earlier this afternoon, I was nodding attentively as each lesson progressed, later I stood in the crowded hallway, mixing into the crowd ever so seamlessly. The image of the accommodating friend, polite listener, diligent peer, all felt so natural at that moment. Now, everything seems ridiculous. With a sharp exhale, I pull my knees to my chest as I burrow my head beneath. My shoulders that felt so heavy, sink as my breath slows down to a steady hum, and the heart beating against the cage inside my chest beats rhythmically. For eight hours or more, I was but a mosaic of expectations, constructed from what others wanted me to be.Thinking back, the task feels exhausting, but the harsh reality tells me it is my daily routine. Was I always like this? When did I resort to this? I try to trace back past the polished behavior, and rehearsed speeches, hoping to find a time when words could flow out easily without having to be filtered through a sieve first. Then again, will that answer the questions that keep coming back?
People play their parts like they know what should be shown, and perhaps that is what I do too. The world really is just a stage with us being the actors. Wouldn't you agree? I lift my head with ease as if the heavy weight of what it holds is nothing. My eyes stare blankly at the wall ahead. I feel like an endless void. Who am I really? The identities that I unknowingly created are like costumes hung at the back of the closet, waiting to be worn. Realization dawns upon the entirety of myself in this small room. Tomorrow, when the sun rises and the birds begin their soft chirp, this process will repeat. My shoulders will straighten, my lips will curve into a smile that does not fully reach my eyes, and the whole puzzle will piece itself together accordingly. Being stuck in this miserable loop is the truth of me living. I wonder if the actor that graces the day will ever meet the one that lives in the dark. In the quiet I am left with the question of what actually remains at the end of the day.
