acting in a forgotten play

My life is a play whose writer has forgotten their motivation. The lines of the script are blurred, somewhat resembling the bricks on the wall I sit beside now. The piercing eyes of the forgotten audience are indistinguishable from the cold wind biting my cheeks. Every prop has been left behind, meaningless in my intangible reality. 

I do sit here now, against that wall, my eyes glazing over. My ears are assaulted by cacophony of silence and my thoughts replicate the noise. I stare into the sky, and yet it does not stare back. Instead, it averts its gaze. The dead, late autumn trees of the forest across the parking lot bore the signs of human restraint, though now, they are overgrown. They reach their arms into the lot, coming for me, the only actor left in the forgotten play.

I slump back with a collapsed spine. The image before me—the lot, the forest, the unsteady stream of people trickling out of the library as it closes—none of it feels real. None of it is raw, unedited. It lacks depth, as a story, and is entirely comprised of telling, never showing.

So I do sit here now, against that wall.  I feel as if I have fallen into a dark abyss, filled with nothing but the melancholy songs of a deaf musician. His musical is over, and his body has failed his soul. Now, the set is falling apart, and the actors have given up hope. Their performance was well-received, but the show has been overrun and turned into a cliche. As I sit, my senses begin to fail me. There seem to be stars, a painting above me. The wall sits with me, bricks collapsing. i listen, and yet I do not hear. i look, and yet I do not see. i touch, and yet I do not feel. 

i act, and yet I do not live.