- Knock knock -

 

"Are you ready? People are already waiting for you out there. There are many waiting for you, waiting to see you.”

 

"I do not feel safe. I don't feel well. I feel uncomfortable putting on that jacket again and doing my hair like that.”

 

“Come on man, they expect a good show…. Don’t let them down.”

 

“Don't you understand that that bothers me?”

 

“Sometimes it's a lot of pressure to even think that there are people out there who expect certain things from you.”

 

“It doesn't matter, understand that you have to go out there on stage.”

 

“There are the clothes, and hurry up, put on the makeup.”

 

The stage was set. There were a huge number of spectators out there; As in all of life, there were always those who expected a bad performance from the actor in order to have something to laugh at, something to make fun of... However, there in that room there were also people who, at most, knew who it was that was there. to go out on stage, but that, despite not knowing him, they were there, waiting, ready to witness that moment where an endless number of human whims and wills lay…

 

Almost at the edge of the stage sat all the people, or almost all the people who, in some way or another, had brought or helped bring our protagonist to such a stage, where the lights were focused on him, where the glances would not be put more than in him…. It was a venue like any other, there wasn't much special about it. Surely, you have already been in some similar place, where there are nothing more than stages placed next to each other, and there is a guy who gallantly comes out to act, sing or play something... Or with luck, you, at some point in time your life, you had to come to the front in the classroom, or you had to dance for some festival... That is why it would not be useful to spend a lot of time describing that precise place, but rather, what happens behind the curtain that divides the world in two... Where it is the appearances that act, and the essence that remains behind there…

 

“Again wearing those damn clothes that I don't like. Why doesn't anyone listen to me when I say I don't like acting? Why don't they understand that putting on those clothes is uncomfortable for me?” Said our young actor complaining while he dressed and got ready to go out on stage once again that evening.

 

While he stood in front of his mirror, observing his face with subtle care, he saw in his eyes a hint of sadness, frustration, and longing for what could have been, but was not. He was painting his face, the makeup was sliding over every corner of his face, thus crossing every imperfection that it could have, however, it was unable to mask wounds and scars that gave a more mysterious touch to our protagonist. He passed his fingers putting on the makeup. "At least someone will think that I'm not so ugly," thought our young actor who, as he produced these words, a melancholic voice escaped from within him as if he didn't want to accept what he himself had just uttered just a few moments ago…

 

Already with his face made up, with his clothes on top. He approached with complicated steps to the exit of his dressing room. “Why do I do it?” “I'm getting tired of acting.” “I don't want to be an actor,” he repeated constantly in his mind as he dragged his feet with every inch he advanced. He took a jacket that was on a rack a few meters from the curtain “This jacket is not even my size,” he expressed with some discomfort while he mentally prepared himself for the show he was about to perform.

 

The curtain opened, the lamps pointing towards him. People watching with such attention and detail every step he took, every gesture his hands created and every grimace his face drew. "I do not want to be here!" “Someone get me out of here!” He said to himself… The minutes passed, the hours advanced on the hands of the universal clock, every step, every applause, every impulse, every thought, every gesture and murmur now belonged to what we call the past... It was a parade of emotions that seemed not to have an end, with every step he took, with movement his body produced, with every word his vocal cords created, he no longer knew who he hated more; If to those who made him be an actor, to the guy who went out on stage to entertain some people or, if he vilely detested the guy who was under that makeup and those rags…

 

The show ended, many of them applauded with a vehement smile on their faces. “Would you applaud me in this same way if one day I decided to go out here, but without these clothes and without this horrendous makeup or would you also run away just seeing my face and the marks that lie there?” He asked himself as he forced a smile feigning pleasure and joy….

 

As he returned from the stage, he tried to get rid of each piece of clothing, that jacket that he had taken moments before going on stage, the silk shirt that covered his torso, the suspenders that gave an elegant touch to his bearing. As he walked, he brushed the left wall with his hand, while he thought “Why am I doing this?”… He walked down that hallway with his eyes lowered, as if he were ashamed but Ashamed of what? Or why?... He arrived without much force at his dressing room, and with total carelessness he threw away those suspenders, his shirt and his jacket. Exhausted, he sat in a small red armchair that at some point belonged to his father... As he sat down, he could only sigh. Completely dejected, he leaned his head back while, with his remaining strength, he tried to fight against those thoughts that were bothering him…. Unable to do so, he only managed to bend down, rest his elbows on his knees and rest his face on his hands; I have to mention that the makeup had not yet been removed from his face...Being in that same position, the only thing he could do was cry... The tears flowed incessantly from his eyes, running through every corner of his face, filling almost to perfection every small detail, every tiny wound and scar... The tears entered between his fingers, running over his hands and forearms, and it was there when he felt an impressive force, a force that escapes its logical understanding…

 

He got up, with the same impetus as a child who had just woken up on the morning of December 25, ran at full speed to his mirror, to the same mirror that had witnessed how with such pain and regret he put on makeup. There was a photo of him from when he was a child…. Maybe about 8 years old he was at that time. He was playing with some wooden airplanes that his father had given him for his birthday…. He held them in his hands as if they were his greatest treasure, as if his happiness depended entirely on them... Upon regaining consciousness of the current moment in which he was immersed, he could only turn his gaze and contemplate how those planes were on some shelves but they were no longer complete, some were missing their landing gear, others had some damage to the wings or the rest of their fuselage... However, he managed to perceive that, behind those planes, lay something, perhaps not so damaged, one that perhaps, with a little paint and care, could shine again like when it was first taken out of its packaging…

 

He went for his plane, he took it in his hands, and when he felt every detail of that little toy, an electric current ran through every part of his body... He felt genuine joy, he saw himself once again as a child, and he saw once again the face of his father who was now flying among the highest stars... Deciding to remove the makeup from his face, he returned to his mirror, looked at his photo once again, and touched it as if he were trying to caress the face of that dreamy child, of that child who wanted to become an aviator pilot... Immediately, he returned his gaze to his current image, looked directly into his eyes, and pronounced "Today is your end, today you will leave me alone." Immediately afterward, he continued to wash his face, to remove every bit of makeup that tried to mask his wounds and scars…. He rinsed his face once more, turned to the mirror and saw that the makeup had been completely removed and said to himself as he looked tenderly at the photo of that child, “I promised you that I wouldn't give up. I promised you that I would be the one to take care of you. I promised you that I would be the one to make your dreams come true”…..

 

He sat at a small desk, turned on a small lamp that he had there, took out a notebook with a leather-covered cover and yellow pages, took out a pen that had belonged to his grandfather and began to write.

 

“Why do we “force” people to “fit” into molds? Why in one way or another do we prohibit them from fully expressing their emotions, their ideas, and their feelings? Wouldn't life be easier if all humans learned not to judge, and to remain silent when we do not have the true intention of understanding others? We have reached a point where feeling bad is “wrong”; That is, how many times have we heard “if people see you well, they will want to be with you”? Is it wrong to express our discomfort, is it something foreign to humans? How many times, when taking a photo, do they tell us “smile for the photo”? Who is good for lying? Who does it good to put on makeup to cover those imperfections that make us perfectly human? I'm already tired of the fact that I'm only someone important when I dress in those clothes that are tight when I make up my face with those colors that I hate. Damn, that's not me!”

 

Immediately afterwards, he tore off the sheet, left it on his desk, and left that place without leaving any trace….

END