Writing is the monologue
an introduction
Stage 1:
So it is not like you wanted to be here, the drapes have already been raised. Right after, you hear the stage manager shouting from behind —the scenes: "Lights are on!". Then the director lingers for you to act, the screenplay to unwind.
The custodian sticks around, until the spotlight has fully illuminated the scene —the requisite for understanding. Meanwhile you expedite to form a notation, a sensory one. Confabulating worlds out of haptics only to incrementally apprehend the stage.
Stage 2:
It doesn't matter if you recite the screenplay or not, the haggard calvary of instances are galloping along the backdrop, taking over the screen. Exasperated, you would pick up non-audial words; later reinscribing them as you perform the notation you coined in your mind, your body dictates the strokes. This helps you regardless, to see the conjunction, the unity of the act and the {screen}play. The audience is watching now, mostly distant randomly aware.
—
I see life as an ever lasting, emerging performance1. Majority of it shall be spent in dialogues (and in silence). But here and there as you are meandering around the apron alone, grappling with interiority, an utterance would surface, a monologue. It would embody the mysticism of life, the contradiction, the apprehension, the tension and the pain. Writing is that monologue, a subsidiary of the main act, autonomous creation, at best auspicious2.
I don’t mean to justify the self commodification in the age of social media rather the performance precedes the theater, the environment. Understanding the performance helps us introspect ourselves honestly, a practice not a commodity.
Can you ask your hands how to laugh?
