I am looking for myself. i been fleeing for 20 years and i din leave a trace. I was lost, and lost was too easy a term, too movie title, too simple to be understood. and for 20 years i believe i like to be mistaken. that make me mysterious, to the point that i dont recognise taht face staring at me in the mirror. does she really like to put on that foundation, intense blue from victoria secret, cheeky pink, and juicy tube from lancome. what is all those color, becoz my face is too dull, becoz like what she says, I need to paint my eyes and my lips and my nose back on my face. and for 20 years my face is a blank sheet, a erasable canvas, and i keep drawing different faces on it. I can be who I wanna be, I can be a boy and I can be a girl. I can be a girlish boy and a boyyish girl. I speak, and it feel like scripted. I was written by me, it was processed, and I am not sure whether I mean it. I don know wat I am talking about sometimes, for I believe not many of the thing I speak is true. There is a reluctant, a part of me that tell me to stop pretending, stop saying out the lines but speak what I mean. I forgot about that part, I ask her, what do you wan me to say? What is there to say? She says back, be truthful, say what you mean! and I din know what is true, and what I realy mean.
It is troublesome, to be hidden. Maybe I am hidden for too long. Some of my kindness aint true too. Some of my rage and grief may be imagined. I enjoyed writing my own script. I wrote about love, betrayal and sex and growing up. I was a wonderful movie, like a dream I watch it all from a distance. And then i realise it is for real and I could either die or wake up. It become scary. Sometime I don llike the story goes, and sometimes I change it, change the lines, change my expression, change my costume. But when I change it, was it still me? or the actor, you see it is confusing, for I am the actor and the director, and the wardrober and the writer. I am one of them and all of them. Sometime they dont agree and the actor stand still, smoking an imaginary cigarette and the wardrober buttoning up the shirts and talking on the cell phone while the director and writer was arguing the whole time.
the errie thing is, sometime I wonder, maybe I m the audience too. When there is a sex scene, there has to be an audience for real, the director and writer agree on it. when there is tears and anger, it was subtle, internal, buried and complicated, and sometimes the writer choose the subtle way, for artistic reason, but most of the time director frown, and say she should scream, she should vent it out, tear some paper, crying, howling and walk out, hang up, throw soemthing. both of them get upset over fights like this. and i was the actor, wondering besides screaming or silently staring at leave falling what is my third choice. As an actor, what is my identity under my fake eyelashses, what is my accent without my script, what is my stride my wink and my career, besides an actor of my own play.
it is all so exhausting, for you wanna tell me to let it go easy. but I cant, i don know how to quit acting. or how to live for real