This is not Broadway

The play has stopped making sense long ago. And since Act I, we’ve been improvising our lines, making everything up as we go along. The playwright isn’t very happy. He’s somewhere backstage, arms akimbo, tapping his foot. Everyone just enters and exits on their own cues now.

I find the spotlight too hot and I don’t even want to do my monologue. I can hear someone in the audience chewing on peanuts. This is not dinner theater so someone wants to take out the gun from the cabinet on stage left and wave it around, just to get the audience back into the story.

Of course it isn’t in the script, so we’re going to have to improvise some more. The playwright’s going to lose his top.

It’s just so insane. I don’t even remember auditioning. I don’t even know how I got this part. How did my name get up onto the marquee? And why have so many people come to watch this play?

I don’t care about the applause anymore. I don’t want to take my final bows. I just want to go.

But there’s no such thing as a graceful exit and the show must go on.


(November, 2008)


**I found this piece in an old external hard drive. I kept reading it, trying to figure out why I wrote it and what it was for and then I saw the date the file was written and realised  I wrote it around the time I got out of the hospital the first time I was struck with meningitis and I had to finally face the fact that I had HIV. I think it was meant to be a prose poem. Or I was just writing, not caring about form or structure. I’m putting it here anyway.

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