Ghost with no Face

May be I, am no more. May be I never was. 

Have you felt this weightlessness in your soul? You walk; your body moves; you can feel your bones grinding; there are aches and sores in your body and yet everything, is distant.

Its like you are sleep-walking through life. Your face does that strange thing you call a 'smile' when you meet people. You do remember (vaguely) that there used to be a time when it felt like you were just an actor in a play; wearing your mask. There was this innate thrill to the performance, like basking in the thought of creating your very own magic show; an artist's muse. 

Somehow, it seems like the show never ended, and one day, you watched someone in the audience, sitting at the back, walking out; someone whom, it seemed, you once knew but couldn't remember. Someone who reminded you, of you. 

Suddenly, all you can find remaining on your stage, is your act. 'The performance'; a curtain that became your home till your hearth burnt out. Its then that you realize that cold, doesn't really feel cold and that emptiness has a weight to it; the weight of used clothes on someone else's body; the chill of a brittle translucent sheet of ice, that is both melting and cracking into a puddle, reflecting a mask that knew no flesh now. 

Its astounding, how the trivial, becomes an adventure; the ritual becomes a religion; the foyer, a shrine; the intruder, a priest. They walk in; stare down your charred skin, playing their fingers around your crevices, marveling at the beauty of the bark you wear. They are inquisitive, they are hungry. Their fingers prod and peel. Your scars underneath are vivid; graffiti reminiscing the birth of life. 

Are they afraid? 

Do they understand? 

Do you, remember?

Its as if time healed your wounds by making you forget how to feel pain; a ghost without a memory.  

May be there is an abundance to being confined; like an echo in an empty room. The dull throbbing ache in your head, the itch under your throat; the bliss of being, without being. 

To be or to become, may be that is never the ask; until you realize who in the audience had walked out, and who was left on the stage, standing an ovation.