My Resignation

It’s times like this that I resign myself to madness. Madness. I cannot be around. Around others. I’ve spent too much time alone today. Today. Yesterday. This week. This year. This lifetime.
I’ve forgotten how to speak. How to speak. I’ve been alone. Too long. Too long have I been by myself.

I’ve forgotten how to live. I’ve forgotten so much. So much is gone. So much.

I’ve forgotten what I’ve forgotten. But I remember that I have. I have forgotten. But what?
That's a saddening thought. And that feeling I cannot shake. Away.
I’ve fallen into the hole in the earth, so deep and wide, and I know I’ve misplaced the dirt. The dirt is gone. Gone. Gone. Somewhere. Away.

I’ve forgotten who I am. Who am I. I am my own lost memory. I’ve been away too long. To long away from myself. Myself as told through others. Others. Away from people. People, the others. You know. People I need to be a part of me. People I adore. People I strive to be.
“I like this part of you. Do you mind if I borrow it? Borrow? Lend?”

I take the best of who I know and knead it into my mentality. I wear it proudly. Like a young sons honor.

But now I see the corruption with which I’ve bought this honor. All the best I used to take from people now disgusts me. Honey turned to tar. I’m shedding the dead flesh that I’ve worn all these years. These years. This life. I’ve defined myself by the parts I’ve played. The parts I’ve taken. But they were always rotten. Rotten by their previous owners. What did I ever think? Why did I ever have faith? There is no good in men. Men. Good. Ha.
There are only brief respites from evil. Does this sound good? Have you gotten it yet? Gotten it? Have it?

I’ve been resigned to madness. I’m convinced. I’m convinced.
I see the worst in people now. I see the true intentions behind masked courtesy. Masks of lace. It is only logical to assume that others have reached the same conclusion, and therefore see no good in me. So what is it good for? What am I good for? Am I good? No. I cannot be if there are no others who are. People. Who are good. Good. Good. And I’ve searched good. I’ve searched.
I’ve played every part. Worn every costume. Delivered every monologue, every soliloquy, every phrase, couplet, poem, song, sentence. I’ve done everything. I’ve been you. I’ve played your part. Your character. To give it a try. If you have a quirk I like. I’ll take it. They haven’t patented personality yet.

I’ve played a part for you. I’ve been what you’ve wanted me to be. And now, you see. You do not know me.

Everything is an illusion. Everything is a test. I’ve been your knight, your slave, your dreamer, your poet, even your lover, though you may not know it. I am a figment of your imagination. I am the dream that came to life. I am the song and the dance. The impossible romance. Love is. Love is. Too much to bear. It is an act I’ve tried to perform. I’ve tried so hard to play the stage. The stage.

Every exit off the stage is simply the entrance onto the real one. I’ve planned and calculated every single move. As any diligent developer of character would do. Every facial twitch, every longing gaze, every word ever spoken, though words aren’t enough. Never enough for you. What do I need to be?

Be yourself. Be yourself.

That’s what they say

Be yourself.

I have no self! There is no I in me!
I am? Who?

I am you and you and you and you and so on and so forth until every person I’ve encountered has been counted because I love you all. I love you all and so to love myself I’ve had to become you all.

Be yourself. Ha! You know when I’m acting? When I step on stage? Do you think you know?

Be yourself.

I cannot. Cannot. Be myself. I cannot. I rejected myself a long time ago. The world didn’t want me as me. They wanted me as them. They wanted to see themselves.

Everyone is a narcissist. Everyone only likes the people who are like themselves. Mirrors are not enough. We need to be flattered through others! And by that merit, I’ve built more confidence in men then most. I’ve filled their heads with dreams of themselves. And with that I’ve been content. If I’ve made them laugh, if I’ve made them smile. I’ve played my part.

And with that I make my profession. I must relate. On every level. Emotionally. Especially.
I was once told that I always seemed comfortable in my surroundings. Like I had lived in that one location my entire life. It’s because I evolve so quickly. I absorb the world around me to avoid being rejected. I want the audience to like me. I want them to applaud and throw flowers. Roses, tulips, daisies, poppies, marigolds.

Do you like my outfit today? I wear it inside and out.

I’m finished with this audience. I’ve exhausted all possible developments. I’ve only got madness left.

Finally: I can never be loved. Nobody falls in love with an illusion. Nobody falls in love with a ghost.

The only sanity is insanity.

And I've resigned my mind to it.

(Image: Ivan the Terrible And His Son Ivan by Ilya Repin)