I stare at the ceiling,
comforted by the fan’s hum.
I listen as it lulls harmonies
to the tune of my white noise thoughts.
I rise eventually.
Meticulously, I assemble my costume options.
I select the ensemble needed
to embody myself.
Before I resume my performance,
I undress.
I remove the remnants of the last act.
I watch my shaking fingers
fumbling at the seams of my shirt.
Once bare,
I take a deep breath
and splash water on my naked skin.
I absorb this second of nihilistic reality.
Intermission;
the solitary moment of character abandonment,
the blip of truth.
My eyes…
vacant, cavernous pools.
Somewhere deep
in echo of that hollow gaze,
I’m reminded
that for whatever reason there is (or is not),
the show must go on.
It always does.