Don’t you think I understand?
The hopeless dream of being.
Not seeming, but being.
In every waking moment
aware, alert.
The tug of war… what you are
with others and who you really are.
A feeling of vertigo
and a constant hunger
to be finally exposed.
To be seen through,
cut down…
even obliterated.
Every tone of voice a lie.
Every gesture false.
Every smile a grimace.
Commit suicide?
That’s unthinkable.
You don’t do things like that.
But you can refuse to move
and be silent.
Then, at least,
you’re not lying.
You can shut yourself in,
shut out the world.
Then you don’t
have to play any roles,
show any faces,
make false gestures.
You’d think so…
…but reality is diabolical.
Your hiding-place
isn’t watertight.
Life trickles in everywhere.
You’re forced to react.
Nobody asks if it’s real or not,
if you’re honest or a liar.
That’s only important
at the theater,
perhaps not even there.
Elisabet, I understand why
you’re silent, why you don’t move.
Your lifelessness
has become a fantastic part.
I understand and I admire you.
I think you should play
this part until it’s done…
…until it’s no longer interesting.
Then you can leave it,
as you leave all your roles.
