I don’t lie.

No, I don’t lie, I act.

I act against my will to act as myself. But how am I really acting?

I acted for so long that I forgot how the real me is acting.

I dream.

I dream at a better me. A kind of me that doesn’t need to act.

I dream with my eyes open and I’m not quite sure either I’m awake or sleeping.

I act even when I dream. Is not me the one who is chased by the Boogie Man in my weirdest nightmares or the one who’s falling madly in love in the dreamiest dreams a woman could dream.

Is she, or he, the character I’m trying so hard to be so I don’t need to be myself.

But who are them? To whom those dreams belong? Not to me I’m sure of that.

“All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” But then what makes me?

I do act, I admit but I also applaud my character when it does something right, or funny or dead wrong.

What is she then? The woman who stands in the lodge laughing her ass of the situation in which the character is?

The woman who acts as someone else just to stand aside and see her life distorting as in a carnival mirror? Who is she and what that disgusting piece of s*** wants form my shattered life?

She stands aside eating truffles and laughing as I, the actor, crush and burn.

She laughs as pieces from the ceiling are falling down upon me.

The play will never be over. And neither the actor could die.

Noise.

Scream.

Blood.

Silence.

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