I awake to the tugging of the invisible string once again. It pulls gently at first,
then harder with each unresponsive second. I get up before the pain becomes
unbearable, dress myself in something it doesn’t dislike, and, instead of getting
something for breakfast, I get yanked out into the hall, not at all gently guided
towards my class that I am running late for.
I manage to get something to eat on the way there, and I can just finish it
before stumbling into the classroom. I get seated somewhere in the corner, and I am
made to watch the lecture. I try to focus, but the pain from the strings pulling my eyes
in a caricature of a stare is all I can take in. After an eternity passing, the strings
suddenly loosen up, too suddenly for me to catch my head before it slams on my
desk. The person who didn’t leave the room in time to avoid witnessing this pretends
they saw nothing. I raise my head, more resigned than hurt really, and I start to get
up, before being strung up once again, the puppet is ready for another performance.
And what a mediocre show it was, anyone who could have seen it would have almost
believed I was a real person. Oh well, practice will certainly make perfection out of
the many, many imperfections.
Once the performance is done, as well as the last of the classes, instead of
taking bows, I am ushered to an appointment that was made for me, but really, it’s a
workshop that only I am aware of, with the goal of trying to make it seem incredibly
like I am not being puppeted by some invisible beast, nor that my limbs do no listen
to my pleas, or that whenever I think of escape the strings are pulling harder and
harder and now they’re pulling the corners of my mouth into something that only a
child could tell is anything but a smile and I laugh and I laugh and I laugh and I-
The workshop was a success, they didn’t suspect a thing. If the beast had
arms, it would have most certainly would have considered clapping. Everyone is
pleased. I am about to collapse on the spot from all the effort that was demanded of
me, but I cannot do that, it would ruin the illusion, reveal the magician’s secret, point
out that the emperor was naked, and so I walk back to a home at the briskest
possible pace.
The home certainly fits the definition of what a home could be, and it might
even be a home to somebody living there, but I’ve yet to accidently run into them. In
there, I try to regain some of my strength, as I know this night’s show is gonna be just
as difficult as every other one. It was heard from an unknown source, that it might
even be a double feature. Oh, joy.
The world likes to be in balance, every action has an equal but opposite
reaction, the night falls, so I am to rise. And rise I do, as I have no choice in the
matter. The room I was resting in is pulled out from under me, and I hang limply,
while the stage is set around me. As I’m lowered down onto it, I see the audience for
the night, and I feel nothing from the familiar sight. The beast is here, in full
nothingness, surrounded by its friends. I wonder what that must feel like. Each guest
is waiting eagerly for the show, yet I am the only one amongst us that doesn’t know,
neither exactly, nor at all what is to transpire. While I can’t know for certain what the
story or my role in it will be, I can be sure that it will be tragic. Like the hero,
sacrificing his life to save the people who will remember them for a little while surely,
then less and less each passing day; or the misunderstood villain, who was trying to
free the masses from the cruel clutches of their superiors, only to be struck down by
their blind defenders; or even the love interest, who ends up being consumed by the
ones who were to love them more than life itself.
I am lost in these vivid scenarios that I created for myself; I almost miss the
start of the show.
The curtains rise.
I awake to the tugging of the invisible string once again.
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