WRITE THE WORLD REVIEW ARCHIVE

It was side of stage I stood, counting breaths, readying for the lights to fade and come up again, as surely as the sun would rise and set,
readying for my entrance
when a tall, shadowy figure leaned down to me and whispered,
“I want you to take up as much space as possible”
Lights down.
I quivered as I walked on stage,
suddenly conscious of all the eager eyes before me,
hungering for the next act
Lights up.
I felt a sudden edge—lump in my throat
I swallowed. Hard.
And I spoke
The dialogue falling out of me like music,
like freedom

The play is called a play because it is the player, while actors are the instruments
through which these emotionally penetrative tunes are plucked, strummed, and reverberated
The edge I had felt was not anxiety but the sharp realisation that I had stepped into an orchestra beyond myself or much my understanding,
where I acted as a vessel for beauty to pass through,
delicately, or sometimes harshly, weaving itself into the hearts of others who let it;
not an object of beauty itself.
And through this I found to love myself
To love this moment of true connection;
symbiosis,
actor to audience,

human to human

Where we are not falsely trying to prove ourselves by starving,
withering away in acts of deception,
emotional withdrawal
Refusing to let ourselves grow, feel, blossom
for fear of infringing on someone else

for fear of imposing our bigness.