The Fury

by Alex Michaelides

And even when I was a child, and full of self-loathing, I sensed another world was out there. A better world, where I might belong. A brighter world—beyond the darkness, lit by spotlights. What am I talking about? The theater, of course.

The real tragedy is, of course, by always looking outward, by focusing so intently on the other person’s experience, we lose touch with our own. It’s as if we live our entire life pretending to be ourselves, as impostors impersonating ourselves, rather than feeling this is really me, this is who I am.

That’s why, these days, I repeatedly force myself to return to my own experience: not are they enjoying themselves? But am I? Not do they like me? But do I like them?

Live in reality. Do not turn this stranger you don’t know into a fairy-tale prince. Look closely at him—can’t you see he isn’t real? Don’t be fooled by the bright eyes, the overeager smile, the false laugh. Can’t you see it’s an act?