The Fury

by Alex Michaelides

I’m about forty years old, give or take a year or two. I’m told I look younger. That’s down to my refusal to grow up, no doubt—never mind grow old. I still feel like a kid inside. Doesn’t everyone?

I often think life is just a performance. None of this is real. It’s a pretense at reality, that’s all. Only when someone, or something, we love dies, do we wake up from the play—and see how artificial it all is—this constructed reality we inhabit.

We suddenly realize that life is in no way lasting, or permanent; no future exists—and nothing we do matters. And in desolation, we howl and scream and rail at the heavens, until, at some point, we do the inevitable: we eat, dress, and brush our teeth. We continue with the marionette-like motions of life, however unhinged it feels to do so. Then, ever so slowly, the illusion takes over again—until we forget that we are actors in a play.