The Prayer Poem. 

“Acting is not about being someone different. It’s finding the similarity in what is apparently different, then finding myself in there.” – Meryl Streep.
Nerves. I can no longer 

hear my heart 

beating and feel cold sweat 

seeping through my porous palms. It is emptiness, complacency 

or just quiet confidence? 

Or am I successfully no longer myself; surrendering fully to the fictional life I have to play?

Slipping in and out 

at the comfort of disappearing 

backstage; shedding performative facial expressiveness once 

away from stage lights. Sometimes so bright, they burn you and expose 

your whole heart bare. 

Stripped stark naked. 

If that is to happen, I wonder if the audiences’ are able to see 

my heart beating or just a 

bloody muscle being puppeted 

by the habitual body. 

Or even worse, just a ghost of an undying soul with no purpose or clarity.

Saying lines without meaning them. 

Travelling in a direction with no intention.

Giving love that was borrowed from someone else. 

But it was funny when the physical contact broke me, 

and woke me up. 

Direct gazing into the eyes and whispered breath of 

genuinity. Then were the hugging; 

goodbyes are simply better felt than said. At least 

the warmth of skin lingers in body memory longer than 

drowned out words. 

He walked towards me and there was a slight pause in the air. 

Our eyes were open but they were better closed. As our lips left each other, we became 

strangers again. 

After all, we belonged to different people and this was our 


Was that us, or were we still playing 

our roles in dressing rooms and along the 




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