The channels that played the older stuff were usually the best. Acting these days had degraded significantly—or so it seemed compared to times long since past. Old movies and musicals always seemed to have the most interesting hook to them, a sort of charm that pulled her in, deep past the monochromatic filter and into a static world of emotion and feeling.
When she watched these things, she felt a sort of siren deep out beyond her.
Beyond her house, beyond her family and friends, beyond the worries and troubles; a soft call that whispered freedom. She wasn't sure from what though, she didn't have a difficult life.
That thought always made it worse, it was one thing to be an insipid and privileged child and 'think' you were depressed, but to have the audacity to legitimately be depressed when so many others around the world were in much worse situations—it made her feel weak, it made her stomach churn.
"What do you have to be sad about?"
She could hear the fast tempo music playing in her head all of a sudden, a flurry of footsteps and dancers making them; appearing on the floor on a great big stage in front of the world. She went here every now and then, it was a place of solace. It was a sacred place, where she was just "one of the crowd" and simply watched the dancers and actors perform their lives away—virtual lives into virtual spaces. . .
Next to her in this great, metaphysical theatre—The Stage as she knew it, sat her mother and father; together and happy. There was no qualms or mistrust, everyone was together and in awe at the amazing show unfolding before them.
A small man in a clown outfit stepped out in front of the spotlight.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the greatest show in the universe! Please, brace yourselves, it's more real than you know!"
The way he said that made her uncomfortable. He was an odd looking thing as it was, in a big and fluffy polka-dotted outfit with a ridiculous blue wig on. That last comment though, something was wrong; she could feel her heart begin to race. The little man began to waddle to the side and the curtain lifted and the magical set appeared. It looked an awful lot like. . .her living room.
A rather tall and gangly man stepped out into the spotlight. He wore a blue flannel that looked like her father's—she began to realize what was happening. Her throat knotted and she looked around, the crowd was completely entranced.
"My wife! I no longer need you! I will be leaving you and the girl now!" He said, his face was shifting in and about, it was like a cloud of color or something. He laughed a deep and sadistic laugh and began to move off stage. Just then a small woman appeared, on her hands and knees she crawled into the spotlight.
"No please, don't go. . ." She said, her voice was so soft.
What hell was this!? They even sounded like her parents! She looked to her sides and her parents sat enchanted by the performance. They had no idea!
"Goodbye dear!" the man said, turning and finally leaving the stage. The woman began crying softly, still on the floor, in front of the spotlight, in front of everyone, in front of her daughter in the crowd.
Just then a small girl walked into the spotlight. She sat next to her weeping mother and stared out at the crowd. The little girl's face was completely recognizable, it was no doubt her own. She was watching herself, her own life as a sick play. Although it didn't quite happen like this, this was a demented vision of it nonetheless.
"It's okay mommy," the girl said, rubbing her mother's back.
With that the curtain fell before them and the spotlight faded as the surrounding lights lit up. The crowd roared, cheered, laughed at the hysterical spectacle. Men and woman who's faces were shapeless and formless, laughing and cheering at something they clearly didn't understand. Or maybe they did? She turned to her parents who were doing the same thing, clapping and whistling at the hellish play.
She felt sick, as if she'd expire any minute. She stood up and put her hands over her ears, begging for everyone to quiet down, begging for everyone to stop. She fell to her knees in the aisle, her eyes shut as tightly as can be, her ears being pressed by her hand's strongest ability. This was hell, a place of solace was hell. A sanctuary had become the devil's playground.
Suddenly she was watching credits roll on a black screen. The movie was over.
What movie was it? She had forgotten, she didn't really care at this point—she was ready for bed. The thought of returning to The Stage frightened her.
"It was just a dream, just a dream. I must've fallen asleep is all. . ." she said to herself, climbing the stairs to her room.
She couldn't even look herself in the mirror, her image was something far too hideous. With that, she drifted off to sleep, somewhere else, someone else.
She had a peculiar dream. In the dream there was the sound of insects—cicada, buzzing and buzzing away. The place she was in was light, bright white light, with no discernible surfaces or ground or walls. All she could see was white, all she could hear was the hypnotic rhythm of the cicada. She felt her body go numb, she felt herself begin to slip. Her body began sinking into the ground—or whatever it was. As it sunk the cicada got louder, somewhere behind their song was the sounds of her parent's frustrated arguing, their anger and confusion breaking the insect symphony. The ground was squeezing and vibrating her body, she could feel it disappearing. She was disappearing and it felt amazing, all of her worries, gone. It all disappeared piece after piece until she was submerged in oblivion.
School was hard that next day.
It always was really, but here, now, it was worse than usual. She couldn't focus, she could hardly do anything. She had a meeting at her club later, with the very last bit of her strength she decided to go at the end of the day.
Drama club had always been a great place, a great outlet. It was the one place besides The Stage that she could shed her skin and just be calm for once, not be herself, not be anyone in particular—on the contrary, be anyone and everyone but herself. Her problems faded at the door, her parents faded at the door, they all disappeared. It was one of the few places that made her happy.
Now, it was almost a feeling of dread that had washed over her lately as she came, meeting after meeting.
For starters, half of the people there were talentless hacks who had no idea what they were doing. That had bugged her from day one so that wasn't the real root of the issue. To add on, the leader was a bit thick headed and his object of affection—a rather ditzy moron, had no business being there at all really. But, she forgave them, after all they all liked acting. No the issue really had come down to the roller coaster of going in and out of the club day after day. Going in she relaxed, but leaving she tensed up again. This process repeated again, and again, and again. She couldn't take it anymore. It was becoming too much, too much fluctuation.
So much happiness and release, only to be taken away by the horrid and ugly reality that would come crashing down on her as she left, to head home, to head back to a place that mind as well not exist. It had only taken a little bit for her to realize how deep her escapist tendencies were running in this club, but she couldn't help it, she couldn't forgive her father—above all, she couldn't accept herself. She thought about this all the time, should she face her image? In the end, it didn't matter though, it was all the same anyway. She so desperately wanted to be someone else, to be somewhere else, to know different people, yet—every morning she awoke in the same bed, in the same miserable shade she was in the night before. It wouldn't leave, no matter how hard she acted, no matter how hard she wished.
She thought about killing herself, but then her mother would have no one left—father certainly wouldn't be there.
No, she would continue, waking up miserable, putting on masks day after day, manipulating everyone around her again, and again, again. You can't hide from a universe that has turned on you.
She could feel it, that last quirk she had with acting and Drama Club. When she acted, she felt—she felt simulated. But controlled and simulated, as if she was a sentient hologram of some sort. She couldn't describe it, but her euphoria and wonder when she acted, it all seemed so—so expected.
Everyone wonders what's real and what really is the true nature of reality. Acting showed her that there is no true nature.
It's all a game, all a big act and we're all actors on The Big Stage playing our parts. It's inescapable, it's just pre recorded misery. That hideous revelation only spiraled her into her depression even more, by then she could barely show her face at school at all, let alone Drama Club.
What do you do when it all feels like a dream? What do you do when you aren't sure if the 'real' you is the real you to begin with? Who's playing the part? Who's acting? Who's being honest? She couldn't figure it out, and after so long of wondering, she didn't care anymore. She would continue on until she died—secretly hoping deep down that the universe would simply take her away in some flash accident.
She would follow her same routine and hope something someday would come along and break her free of the simulation, of the illusion, of The Stage and The Great Play.
In truth though they'd probably never come.
So she would sit and wait, watching Soap Operas and classics as many times as necessary, until she could find the perfect way to be somebody else.
Summer days were the hardest, especially when it was raining.
The soft glow of the television dimly lit the dark living room. She was hollow, blank, entranced in the actors and their bliss. She could hear the cicadas in the distance, humming for all eternity. The humidity saturating the air and nuzzling her skin. Her mind had become a loop of quotes and memorable scenes and moments, decaying with every breath she took. Her misery was permanent, as was her mother's it seemed. In her head she could feel a faint hope that it would change, but she knew better than to hope.
As she sat there and briefly reminisced on her once happy life she slowly became entranced by the television again, her small shred of light snuffed out. The cicadas sang a black symphony in the distance, the light drizzle licked the windows, the television whispered lies to her. She was in purgatory, awaiting transcendence in a virtual world where she was no more real and just as virtual.
She awaited oblivion, but there was no way to act or simulate that. That was the one truth she couldn't act or fake; true and quiet oblivion. She faintly smiled, a soft infinity out there amongst the insect song, a reality that was nothing at all.