“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
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