Spectator Sport

Tumultuous time, and I am only writing about it because there’s really no one I want to share this with.

Maybe I do, or maybe I don’t really want to, but I’m entering the arena. Not knowing though, whether I sit up front and bravely cheer for blood, or sit back in the nosebleed section…. that kills me.

It kills me.

And right when I go through that tunnel that leads me into the seating section, I stop.
I stop and I stare. I’m frozen at the same time that I’m being pulled from all sides by all these other people passing through my life, unintentionally, of course.

It’s me. I know it’s me.

I should know by now how to care for this drama, but I don’t.
After a whole life of performing, you can’t take that mask off. It’s melded to your skin and you don’t know where the mask ends and you begin. And I end up motionless. An unwilling spectator in my own life.

Just because I don’t know what happens next.
Just because I’m worried about that blood.
Just because I don’t know how I would react if no blood was shed.