A life to live.

What shall I say about life without sounding too depressed? As I join the masses in the orchestra of life. I am handed an instrument to play; A part, a roll without any guidance. At first, it seems strange, but it's bold of me to assume that there is any reason in this madness. I look out into the crowd at all the weary faces. I do not know who they are or where they come from but only that they are forced to spectate and critique tonight’s performance. With pen and paper at the ready I am sure that their words will sting. The composer walks out on stage as all hands seem to echo in the background. The faces do not change as their applause holds no compassion. The composer looks out at the crowd as one single drop of sweat rolls down his face. He is nervous, and rightly so. One little slip could mean destruction. One note out of place is all it takes to lose oneself. Then there is us. Untrained nobodies ready to touch the instrument for the first time. What sound will it make? He turns around and walks to the podium. He lets out a single sigh as he composes himself. The tension in the air is unbearable. I can feel my stomach turning. It is time to begin: “Anyone can do this ” they say. But who is anyone, because anyone is not me.

First note, miss

Second note, miss

Third note; …

I stop in frustration. What is this? How did I get here? Forced to grow up so that I cannot live? Forced to breathe so that I can continue playing their game of chess? The instrument is big and uncomfortable to hold. My arm is threatening to give in under the pressure. My chest feels tense. The composer looks at me with bloodshot rage as he keeps flailing his arms to no avail. Hopeless I bow my head to the ground. As I am on the verge of giving up, something stirs inside me. A last surge of desperation fills me. I pick up the instrument and ruthlessly start to play! Not one note on cue and no rhyme or rhythm to speak of. The composer flails his arms as a look of fear crosses his face. He cannot control me. Like a runaway train the performance is starting to take a drastic turn. Other instruments start to fade into the background as mine takes center stage. The crowd gasps as they don’t know what to make of the situation. Everyone is in shock. All except for me that is trying with all my strength to make sense of all of this. With my last bit of strength, the notes start to fall into place. I know the song! I know how to play! I finish my set as tears roll down my face. I DID IT! I survived this wretched race. I look down at my hands that is full of blisters. This is quite a painful game I think to myself. No wonder so many quit before it is over. Silence fills the room as I put down the instrument. I am met with expressionless stares across the room. The composer collapses in a chair nearby. Despite his best efforts, tonight did not go as planned. The other players start to pack up their instruments glad that the night is finally over. Everyone leaves the stage leaving me alone with the audience. Their final verdict awaits. Some look angry and some look pleased. I hear their pens scratch on the page…. What happens next?

 

So now the question remains. Who is the audience… so ready to judge you and keep you in place?  Some say it's culture. some say it's religion. What gives you your final judgment when you die?

Who is the composer? So eager to control the game? Is it the government or perhaps Maybe the rich? Do you know who is pulling the strings? We can argue about this all day as everyone is so eager to give an answer on the question of life. But now I would like to ask you a different question. Perhaps even a more difficult question to answer. Who are you? The person sitting behind the instrument ready to play. Do you know the song? Do you know the notes? How will you act when the performance begins and what will you do when the curtain finally closes? What legacy will you leave behind? But even deeper than that. Even if you do not know the answers to the questions do you still have the guts to play?