2 If my life were a show, it would be incomprehensible. It would be strange. It would be panic. It would be anger. It would be silent. It would be deafening. It would be a clear ink stain. It would be graphite. It would be hysterical laughter. It would be bipolar. It would be heartbreaking. It would continue to bleed. Bleed again and again. Until it was emptied of everything. Of feeling, emotion, or life. Until only a stage remained. It would truly be empty. Even with all the acts in the world, Even with 1,000 actors, Even with an entire orchestra, it would remain empty. The spectators would return to their homes, bewildered. They would mechanically say goodnight to their children. Gazing at the flat ceiling, They would slowly fall asleep, becoming helpless bodies, cold and empty. In the spectacle that is my life, thinking of happily ever after would be heresy. Then awareness. I understand. The voiceover exists. It's there, it is. The voiceover seeks attention, but not from the audience. The voiceover lives for its own spotlight and applause. The voiceover doesn't speak, act, or interpret for the empty spectator, but for the emptiness that grips it. The voiceover craves the fame inherent in the spectacle that is my life.