As well as my own observations during my many commutes this idea comes loosely inspired by Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York (a fantastic film, which I could wax lyrical about for many hours) and one man’s attempt to document his own life through a quixotic theatre project …
In short, it examines (badly) with the immediacy and spontaneity of real life being akin to a higher form of performance (“free will is your playwright”). Because when you’re people watching in a itinerant, bustling trains station such as London’s Victoria and contrasted with an item of carefully pre-meditated media (A play and/or film and less so than a piece of music) where’s the difference? Our senses and our consciousnesses are the auteurs of the subjectivised world we choose to create. This poem is dedicated to this notion (Apologies for the pretentiousness of this idea, but I like it).
but the whole World is a stage
Lonely lives of quiet desperation
It transcends age
Observers and voyeurs, observing and receiving infinite free shows
Detached and debased
We’re all acting
as the thin veneer is scrapped away
to reveal a snarling, nihilistic beast.
Life itself is the greatest magnum opus never preformed
But it’s being preformed right now:
Limitless locations and impromptu indefiniteness
Forget the Pinteresque, these pauses are real
(Oh, whatever Trite defines that to be)
Improvisation and realism are smashed from their stalls of intellectual affectations
(They live the definition)
Mere atoms colliding as the facades are for-ever and ever, ever
When real life is Theatre.
We’re all frauds and Thespians
Charlatans and Shakespeareans !
Free will governed idiocy is your playwright
When Real life becomes Theatre