Once, I told a friend something. Something about me, about my life, about who I am. I gave her a tidbit of the truth.
She says my life is a drama. What if it were a drama? Who would be the main character? Would it be me, or one of the other six billion people? An infant, an elder. A teenager, an adult. A girl, a boy. Who would it be?
She says my life is a drama. If it were my life, my life, not someone else’s, who would be the protagonist? Would it be me, or would I be the antagonist? Maybe I’d be an anti-hero. Maybe I’d be a minor character, someone who plays a small role, or maybe I’d be the star. Maybe I’d be the star, a star that shines, or maybe a star, one that nobody sees.
I am that, and I am not. I am many things, and I cannot be categorized.
What would my drama be about? It’d be about many things, I know, and it would not be able to be categorized.
It might be about that girl, the one who is pretty and conceited, is popular and attractive, is confident and outgoing. It might be about that girl, the one who is envied, loved, and hated, known by most, loved by some, hated by some. It might be about her, she who is dense and unaware, she who is silly and willing and brave. It might be about that girl, the one who sings and dances and acts. It might be her.
Or it might be about that girl, the one who is plain and insecure, is invisible and unsure, is quiet and unnoticed. It might be about that girl, the one who is never noticed by anyone but herself, and disliked by herself. It might be about her, she who longs to be noticed, longs to be seen and to shine, to be someone she herself will love. It might be about that girl, the one who hides and trembles and cries. It might be her.
And it might be about that girl, the one who is plain and pretty, who is conceited and insecure. It might star she who is both, who lies and lies and lies, to herself, to everybody, to fool them. To make them think she is the former, to make them love her. To allow herself to love her. She tries, she tries.
She fails.
She tries everyday, everyday, to be someone she wants to be. She changes, she changes, to be her, her, and she never succeeds. She is at school, her connection to the world outside, at the risk of feeling vulnerable and being hurt. And for that she builds a shield. And that shield—it fears nothing. It is confident and knows it. That shield charges through life to get it over with. That shield wants to live life, but finishes it before it can enjoy it.
And the shield, it protects someone who hides. Someone who is weak in every possible way and unwilling to show it. She is at school her connection to the world outside, but never connects with it. It is always her shield that shines. Never her. She fears everything, fears being hurt, fears being loved, fears being hated. She wants to get life over with, and she realizes that the only way to do that is to live it.
She knows that everybody is human, that everybody has the same experience.
She knows that nobody is brave enough to admit it.
My friend says my life is a drama, where I am the protagonist, the pretty and plain, the confident and insecure. They say it is a fantasy! That I have an alter ego. That I have to deal with so many things. That I have to face love, hate, pain, fury. That I have to face my inner conflicts. She asks me, “How can you bear feeling so alone? How can you bear to feel that you are neglected, that you are not seen? How can you bear it?” And then she says, “Thank God it’s only a fantasy, right?”
Oh, yes. My life is a drama.
Yes, a drama. But no fantasy.